


something worth fighting for

by theperipheral



Category: The 100 (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Historical, F/F, Implied/Referenced Rape/Non-con, Slow Burn, follows the Boudica story and all it entails, unfortunately it's part of the legend
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-12-11
Updated: 2018-07-05
Packaged: 2018-09-07 22:00:27
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 6
Words: 26,912
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8817760
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/theperipheral/pseuds/theperipheral
Summary: The Romans took Camulodunum and supressed much of the south-east of Britannia 18 years ago. Rebel leaders have come and gone, men and women have fought and won and lost, but none have truly captured the hearts of the downtrodden and beaten masses in recent years. Britannia belongs to the empire now. Clarke lives in Roman Camulodunum as a healer and is pressured into leaving the colony to help an injured child. What she finds instead is far more dangerous.A Britannia AU set around AD 60 and the Boudica uprisings.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> I haven't written anything seriously in years, but I hope this is enjoyable! This story follows the Boudica legend, so unfortunately there is referenced rape. I won't write it, I won't touch anything to do with that other than the aftermath, so please feel safe in that regard. I'm not striving for complete historical accuracy, but I will try my best.

Morning was beginning to creep when she woke to the sounds of an argument next door. That was the problem with the older homes in the town – they were converted from the temporary barracks of the invasion years and had thin and crumbling walls. No-one stayed there by choice. Clarke had decided to simply do as best she could with what she was given, which was substantially more than many would hope for.

Clarke lived her life within Camulodunum itself. She was the daughter of a veteran legionary who had the decency to provide accommodation for his illegitimate child, if not the generosity to make it comfortable. She had somewhere to sleep and a few possessions for herself and she hadn’t yet been made to marry – all of which she was extremely grateful for. Her life was not a particularly hard one compared with the true natives – she had citizenship and a place to call home, and a role within the daily workings of the town.

A _thud_ against the adjoining wall to the side of her sleeping pallet brought her fully to her senses. She drew her blanket closer about herself and curled up into a tight ball. _‘It’s too early for this’_ , she thought as a _crash_ of pottery against plaster rang out and the shouting stopped. There was a shuffling of feet approaching her door and a hesitant knock.

For a brief moment, Clarke wanted to burrow into her blanket and pretend she wasn’t home. She shook her head at herself and rose, shrugging on a tunic and smoothing her hair as best she could. Forcing a smile on her face, she walked over and opened the door.

“Do you need something Bellamy?”

The young man stood hesitating at the threshold. His face was worried and tired, although he seemed to be fighting with himself to stand proudly.

“My mom… she stepped on a broken jug and cut her foot. Can you take a look?”

Clarke nodded, understanding it was likely a lie. It wasn’t the first such injury she’d seen to next door, although it was normally Bellamy who bore them. She gathered up a bundle of bandages and medicinal herbs, and followed the tall dark haired man to the next door.

A woman slumped against the wall, clutching and fretting at her bloody foot. Broken pieces of pottery lay around her and a terracotta mark and splatter of wine high on the wall suggested that the jug had been thrown rather than dropped. The smell of alcohol on Bellamy’s mother was unmistakable. At the sound of Clarke’s approach, she looked up and sobbed her usual drunken, blubbering apologies.

Clarke turned to Bellamy, who nodded and took his mother’s hand, rubbing soothing circles across the back. He lifted her up and laid her gently on her back while Clarke readied her supplies. Bellamy talked quietly while Clarke cleaned the wound and wrapped it, then poured a powdered substance into a cup and mixed it with water.

“Here,” she said gently, passing it to the injured woman, “this will help you sleep.”

Once his mother was drifting, Bellamy let out a heavy sigh and ran a hand over his shorn head.

“I don’t know how long she can keep this up,” he muttered. Clarke wasn’t sure if she was supposed to have heard.

“She’ll get there. Any word from Octavia?”

“Nothing.” Bellamy shook his head. “Not a damn thing.”

“She’ll come back, Bell.”

“She won’t. She’s joined…” Bellamy rocked back on his heels and held his head in his hands. He didn’t need to finish; Clarke knew what he meant.

Before she had gone missing, Octavia had made it clear to her brother that she had sympathies with the rebels to the north. There were rumours that she had been seen with a man wearing a sky blue cloak of the Iceni just days before her disappearance. Those rumours alone had cost Bellamy his prospective place as a legionary recruit. All he had now was his alcoholic mother and a few friends he could trust.

Clarke bundled a few bandages and handed them to Bellamy.

“Don’t let her put weight on that foot, check the bandage this afternoon. I’ll bring another draught for her tonight so you can have some time to yourself.”

Bellamy nodded, his eyes watering. He was nearing the end of his tether, so Clarke took that as her cue to leave and begin her day.

-

 The only people on the streets so far were errand runners and children making deliveries of the morning’s bread. It was Clarke’s favourite time of day –  she enjoyed the quiet business that occurred only when the very tired must go to work, the moments when bleary-eyed nods were the only means of communication. Judging by the light beginning to rise over the top of the old barracks, she decided she had time to make a few stops before heading to the clinic where she worked.

Clarke turned away from the main road and headed towards the outskirts. The people who lived out there could barely scrape enough coin to eat, let alone pay for medical help. There were risks with going out that far – guards and legionaries rarely ventured there so pickpockets and worse were rife. Clarke had made a name for herself as helpful to the needy, so was usually left to her business.

She was about to duck into a tent to see the family of a new mother when she caught a flash of blue in the corner of her eye. It was a sky blue while the day itself was cloudy, and she took a step back to re-examine her surroundings. It was still early, with few people around, mostly those trying to find somewhere to relieve themselves. Just as she was about to write it off as her imagination, Clarke saw it again, more clearly. A brooch, pinned to the un-dyed cloak of a man standing just a hundred paces away. His piercing gaze was directed straight at her, and she had to suppress a shudder. He nodded and with panic, Clarke felt a hand wrap around her wrist.

“We need your help,” a voice whispered, and Clarke had to stop herself from whipping her head around to stare.

“Octavia, what are you doing here?” she hissed, “They’ll kill you if they catch you.”

“I just told you,” came the impatient reply. The hand at Clarke’s wrist tensed. “Please just come with us. It’s… something awful has happened and we need your help.”

Clarke hesitated for a moment, looking at the man with the blue brooch.

“Your friend will get himself killed for wearing that,” she murmured.

“He’s loyal to his people Clarke, to the end. Please, just -” Octavia drew a deep breath, her voice almost frantic. Patience had never been her strongest attribute. “It’s a kid, Clarke. She’s hurt badly and none of us know what to do.”

“And there’s no one else who can help you?”

“No. I wouldn’t come back here unless I had to.”

Clarke slowly turned to properly look at Octavia. She wore plain clothing, more in line with the average villager than the sister of a legionary recruit. She had her own blue enamelled pin and undyed cloak, and her hair was pulled into braids at her temples. She carried a sack filled with something Clarke could only guess at. There was a look of pleading desperation on her face that was difficult to call dishonest.

 It was true that Octavia had never enjoyed life in the town – what little life she had been allowed thanks to being at the beck and call of her mother, but it stung Clarke to think that they had been friends once. The two of them and Bellamy had all but grown up together. It seemed the wild and spirited girl had found something she truly treasured. It was with slight bitterness that Clarke realised she had no part in it.

“Please, Clarke, I don’t know where else to go.”

“Alright,” she relented after a moment’s hesitation. She was suspicious, but wanted to believe that their friendship still meant something. “Lead the way.” 

Octavia released her grip on Clarke’s wrist with a small, thankful smile. She began walking toward the man, who was still gazing intently at them. He nodded to Octavia, then caught Clarke’s eye. He said nothing, but indicated that she should follow them with a discreet beckoning gesture.

Once they neared the edges of the settlement, Octavia and her friend slowed at the mouth of an alleyway.

“We’ll make our own way out; it’ll be too conspicuous if we go together.”

“Sure, because you don’t stand out already with your warrior’s braids and fresh tattoo,” Clarke said, raising her eyebrows at the serpent design coiling around Octavia’s upper arm. Octavia’s stoic man let out a snort of laughter and earned a playful slap on the shoulder.

“Head for the woods to pick some herbs or something. We’ll find you.”

So Clarke nodded and headed for the gate alone. The sun was higher now, and the town behind her was beginning to wake. A few of the guards knew her on sight and didn’t bother to stand from their dice game.

“Clarke! Heading out for supplies already? You only went a few days ago,” one asked as he shook the dice cup. He was a kind young man the same age as Clarke, who’d decided the legionary life wasn’t for him.

“There’ve been more drunks in need of hangover cures than usual. I can only collect so many herbs at once.”

He spilled his dice out on a wooden slab and cursed his luck. He began scooping them back into the cup.

“Alright, alright. Just be careful. There’s rumours of trouble in the north, all the legionaries are expecting something big. Make sure you don’t go too far.”

“There’s only so many herbs close by.”

 “Well don’t blame me if you get yourself caught by some rebel savages,” he rolled his dice again, happier this time. He waved a hand dismissively, signalling she could pass.

“I’ll be careful. Thanks, Finn.”

With the guards’ attention back on their game, Clarke swallowed her nerves and carried on her way, heading for the treeline. Almost as soon as she was out of the sight of the town, Octavia and her friend dropped from a tree, startling her.

“Thanks for that,” she muttered irritably.

“Sure,” Octavia said. She gestured to the man, who was already starting to head north. “This is Lincoln. He already knows who you are.”

“He’s the reason you left.” It wasn’t a question, nor an accusation.

“Part of it. There’s a better life out there for us than the Romans want us to think.”

“Fighting for scraps of land and worshipping gods you’ve never seen?”

“Sure,” Octavia sighed. It was clear she didn’t want to explain herself, but she continued nonetheless. “That and a family beyond blood. Warm roundhouses and friends you can believe in.”

“You couldn’t believe in Bell and I?”

“That’s not what I meant.”

Clarke dropped the subject when it became clear they wouldn’t find something to agree on. After a few uncomfortable moments of silence, she spoke again.

“We missed you,” she said quietly.

“I miss you too, but I can’t pretend to be someone I’m not. I belong out here with our people.”

“ _Our_ people?” Clarke’s eyes narrowed in confusion.

“Yes, _our_ people, Clarke. Your dad may have been Roman but your mom wasn’t.” Octavia’s voice was raised in anger. “They couldn’t care less about us, we’re just another conquest.”

Clarke couldn’t bring herself to disagree. Just then, Lincoln appeared holding the reins of a dun filly out to her. She hadn’t even seen him move away to fetch it. She took the signal to mount. Lincoln backed off again and returned a few moments later on a roan horse, guiding a grey for Octavia. It occurred to Clarke that if they’d brought horses, they were further away than she’d anticipated.

“Just how far are we going?” Clarke asked, worried she may not make it back in time for the settlement-wide curfew.

“Just a short ride.” It was Lincoln who spoke, in accented Latin. He gestured to his right and walked his mount forward.

-

As they exited the woods, they increased their speed. Clarke was thankful for the lack of conversation considering how poorly it had gone so far. Instead, she found herself thinking hard about her situation. Whatever tribal had sent for a half-Roman healer so far away for the sake of a _child_ had to be desperate. She glanced over at Octavia. Clearly, through either Lincoln’s word or her own deeds, the rebels trusted her enough with this task. She seemed different out here than she had back in Camulodunum, more at ease with herself. Clarke wondered what Bellamy would think if he could see his spirited sister seem so _free._

In the end, the ride took almost half a day and Clarke was growing concerned. They slowed at the edge of a stream to dismount. Lincoln led his and Clarke’s horses and Octavia her own. It was here that Clarke saw for the first time that the coiled snake tattooed on Octavia’s arm was also painted on the shoulder of her horse in a pale blue. Lincoln’s had a hound in the same colour. Clarke’s filly had nothing and she didn’t ask what that meant.

Ten minutes later, the unmistakable sounds of a village were clear to be heard. Over the next hill, there was a settlement a little fuller than it ought to be. Many people had their hair braided similarly to Octavia, and most shocking of all – had weapons at their waists. Clarke swallowed hard and turned to the girl she’d once called a friend.

“Warriors? What is this, Octavia?”

“It’s a rebellion, a real one. These people have endured enough.” Octavia led the way forward, passing her horse to the child who ran up to her. She ruffled his hair as he took the reins. “We want our land back and we want to worship the way we always have.”

“You worshipped at the temple of Claudius when we were kids,” Clarke argued with a roll of her eyes. Octavia shook her head.

“And it didn’t feel right, even then. Being here does.”

The conversation lulled as they approached a hut guarded by a large, surly man who seemed to be watching them carefully. Octavia spoke quietly to him and he gestured for them to continue inside. He looked Clarke up and down as they passed and grunted out a quick warning,

“Cause us no trouble and we’ll cause you none.”

Once the flap of animal skin covered the door, there was little light in the hut. Clarke blinked in an effort to adjust her eyes to the sudden dimness, but to little avail. From the basic shapes she could make out, there was little to see anyway. Lincoln cleared his throat as Octavia poked around in a box in search of something.

“Don’t you think we should maybe tell Clarke why she’s really here now?” he asked quietly. Clarke stood up taller, more expectantly. Octavia shrugged.

“Is that really for us to decide? She’s already here, it’s not like she can change her mind.”

“So I’m not really here to treat a kid?” Clarke sighed accusingly, knowing there had to have been more to it.

“You are,” Octavia said. She let out a triumphant noise as she found whatever it was she was looking for. “Two actually. And someone else. You’ll find out soon enough.”

Lincoln’s hand on Clarke’s shoulder told her it was time to leave the hut. In daylight, she saw that Octavia now wore a sword on her back and a row of daggers at her belt. She still carried the sack she had back in Camulodunum. If their conversations hadn’t shown how different the dark haired girl now was, her prideful stance and ease with her weapons certainly did.

Octavia and Lincoln strode towards the centre of the settlement with Clarke trailing behind. It was much like any other village she had visited, with a few farmers tending their animals and children playing in the mud. There were craftsmen and their customers arguing over the cost of repairs and a hound was chasing chickens and being chased by its owner in turn. The only difference between this and the town she had come from was the size. And the distinct lack of the odour of urine.

As they approached one of the larger buildings, people started to stare. Clarke suddenly felt very out of place among people clad in leathers and rough-spun clothing, conscious of her worn but still very Roman style tunic. One or two children hid behind their parents, and an old man spat in her direction. Just as she was about to reach for Octavia and tell her maybe this wasn’t such a good idea, a shout rang out and stopped them in their tracks.

“You brought a Roman here?” The tone was accusatory, aimed at Lincoln and Octavia.

The woman who yelled stepped out of the doorway of the largest building, thunder written on her face. Her dark skin matched her countenance, and her hair was cropped close to her head in a style Clarke had rarely seen. Lincoln was the one to reply when Octavia seemed to shrink into herself slightly.

“Yes,” he called back as he gestured for Clarke and Octavia to continue approaching, “and no. Octavia has earned my trust, and she vouches for this healer. I’m told she has no special love for the Romans.”

“I have sent for our own healers.”

“With respect Indra, they won’t be here for days. We may not have that much time.”

The three of them had reached Indra, whose face remained stern. Up close, Clarke could see a network of scars across her face and a tattoo over her right brow. The angry woman’s wary eyes studied Clarke in turn for a moment, weighing her options before flicking back to Lincoln. The two of them seemed to have a silent conversation. At a questioning tilt of Lincoln’s head, Indra stepped up to Clarke, shoulders squared high. 

“No. You are not welcome here.” Her voice was low, laced with venom, her eyes burning with unconcealed loathing. Clarke met the glare impassively. After years of dissipating bar fights and dealing with their aftermath, she had no patience for intimidation tactics.

“Please, Indra, we don’t have the-” Lincoln reached forward to grasp a shoulder but was interrupted when the flap of leather over the door was thrust open.

Another woman stood in the doorway, blinking as her eyes adjusted to the sunlight. Her dark braids hung wetly about her shoulders as though she had been labouring hard in the heat and the sleeves of her tunic were pushed up about her elbows. There was blood on her hands. A smear of soot marked the left of her face from brow to temple. The newcomer looked tiredly between each of them and raised an eyebrow when her gaze landed on Indra, awaiting an explanation.

“Lexa, these two have brought a Roman into our village. She will return and tell-”

“She’s a healer,” Octavia interrupted with a tone that suggested she was more confident than she had presented a moment ago. “We brought her here to help. If we can’t save them, then we…”

A piercing stare quieted her, coming from the second woman in the doorway.

“I’m sure she can speak for herself.” The intense green gaze fell upon Clarke at last. There was a pregnant pause as Clarke said nothing, gathering the day’s events in her mind.

“I don’t really know why I’m here,” she said finally. “I was told there was an injured child and that my skills would be useful. From what I’ve gathered, that’s not entirely true. If you don’t want my help, I’ll leave.”

“Your kind is not welcome here,” Indra snarled again. Lexa held up a hand and she backed down.

“How long have you been a healer?” the brunette asked quickly.

“Since I was old enough to wrap a bandage. Since I was six.”

“And you’ve dealt with warriors before? Or…” she hesitated for a moment, “or criminals, after their punishment?”

Clarke looked between Lexa and Octavia, trying to glean any information that could help her answer.

“I wouldn’t say I’ve looked after warriors before, at least not the kind you seem to have here. But yes, I’ve worked on people who have been punished for their crimes.”

“Severe crimes?”

“That depends on your definition of severe, and on the punishment.”

Lexa raised her chin and tensed her jaw, as though considering her answer.

“Flogging.”

The word was quiet. Clarke could see the tension held in the other woman’s neck and in her eyes. Octavia offered only a curt raise of sharp brows and lips pressed tightly together.

“Yes,” Clarke eventually replied. Flogging was a fairly commonplace punishment in Camulodunum and she’d dealt with it a few times. The looks on the faces of the people around her had her more worried than she otherwise would have been. The one named Lexa was looking just past her in the direction they had travelled from. With one last look at the three who actually knew what was going on, she stepped back and raised her arm over the doorway to hold one side of the covering flap.

“Before I can let you enter you must assure me that anything you see in this hut will not leave it.”

A large part of healing in general involved discretion, whether avoiding questions of just _where_ married people acquired their particular diseases, or patching up fighters after illegal brawls or any other iteration of people doing something they weren’t quite supposed to. Clarke was quite used to keeping her mouth shut about who she treated and why.

This situation however, was heavier. Octavia had drawn her here with lies, to a village brimming with rebels and the reception had been outright hostile. Now she was being sworn to secrecy before even meeting her patient. There was a nagging feeling in the back of her mind that said she wouldn’t be allowed to simply return home if she refused. A glance between Indra’s glowering face and Lexa’s impassive one backed up the thought.

“It doesn’t seem I have a choice,” Clarke relented. With a sharp nod, Lexa drew back the door flap and gestured for her to enter.

“We don’t have much of a choice either.”

“Lexa, you can’t be serious!” Indra stepped in front of Clarke, blocking her path.

“Wait outside, Indra.”

Lexa did not raise her voice, but the tone had the desired effect. Indra furiously moved to the left. The glare she sent Clarke told her that if she so much as thought of whispering anything to anyone, she would be dead before the words left her lips.

As soon as she reached the doorway, a blast of hot air hit Clarke head on. In the centre of the hut was a blazing fire, logs stacked high and bathing the single room in hot orange light. As her eyes needed to adjust to the sudden change, her nose was assaulted with the sharp tang of fresh blood. A whimper came from further back, and her eyes followed it to a young girl curled into a ball under a pile of furs. Tears streaked her face and she tensed when an older girl, also trembling went to touch her shoulder. The hand was quickly removed.

The second girl couldn’t have been more than thirteen. She drew back from her sister – the familial resemblance was obvious even at first glance – and looked up at the people at the entrance. Her blue eyes were full of fire when they landed on Clarke and her lip turned up into a snarl.

“Lexa, why-”

“She’s a healer. She may look Roman, but she’s here to help, I promise.”

Lexa’s eyes darted between the two girls and then to the other side of the hut, where Clarke hadn’t yet looked. When she did, the source of the smell became clear. A woman lay prone on her front, unconscious. Her red hair was matted with blood from the brutal latticework of wounds across her back. Her breathing was laboured and a pile of bloodied bandages lay next to her, along with a red-tainted bowl of water. Lexa walked over and gestured for Clarke to follow.

“This is why you’re here. This is our Boudica.”


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Clarke treats her patients and learns she may never see Camulodunum again

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello, the ancient medicine practised in this chapter would probably kill someone because I made it up.
> 
> Also, thank you guys so much for your comments and kudos, they meant so much to me and helped me through a rough holiday season. If anyone wants to yell things (about anything really), I'm oblarmi on tumblr.

Clarke sank to her knees to examine the bloody mess of Boudica’s back. Every flogging victim she’d treated before paled in comparison. By the looks of it, a particularly sadistic individual had used a barbed whip, leaving deep welts in the flesh, some of which were now inflamed and weeping. 

“Did you make her sleep or did she fall unconscious?” she asked, turning to Lexa. 

Lexa knelt at her side and held out a pouch of powdered poppy.

“She was struggling and in pain when I arrived. It seemed the right thing to do.”

It was probably for the best for the time being, considering the agony she must be in. Clarke nodded and rocked back to stand. She looked up and saw a few herbs hung to dry along the roof, but none of them were what she needed for her current task.

“I don’t have my supplies here. Bring me what you have and I’ll see what I can do.”

At this, Octavia rushed forward and thrust the sack she’d been carrying into Clarke’s arms. With a raised eyebrow, Clarke pulled at the drawstring. Inside was a thrown together collection of her belongings – a couple of tunics, a spare pair of shoes, and more helpfully, bundles of herbs and bandages. She shot a questioning look at her friend, who shrugged apologetically. She must have stolen them sometime after Bellamy summoned her next door. The sack confirmed the thought that had been at the back of her mind all morning - they weren’t going to let her go home, and that had been the plan all along. She thought bitterly about Finn’s warning.

Clarke shook off the anger that rose in her and looked around. There would be time to shout about the theft and what it meant later. For now, she could make herself useful in the hope that she wouldn’t be harmed. She knew next to nothing about these people, but had a feeling they wouldn’t hesitate to use their illegal weapons. 

There was a small wooden table nearby. She dragged it closer and began laying out the herbs she would need, then started digging through the sack again. With so many eyes on her, the hut felt crowded. Lincoln and Octavia hovered by the now covered doorway, the elder of the two young girls stared on acidly and Lexa still knelt by the unconscious woman, a strange, faraway look in her eye.

“I need you to grind this nettle and comfrey into a paste,” Clarke said quickly to none of them and all of them, pointing to each leaf as she spoke. “It’ll reduce the swelling and help clear the wounds of any infection.”

At last, she found her rolled-up kit of needles and selected a particularly long, curved one. She held it up to the light to thread it, then settled back by her patient. Nobody else had moved and Clarke’s eyebrows knitted together in annoyance. They all remained in place as she leaned forward to examine the wounds again.

“If you want me to save her, start grinding,” she muttered impatiently, nudging Lexa half out of irritation and half to wake her from whatever reverie she was in. She paused as the other occupants of the hut seemed to draw in breath when Lexa slumped to one side as though pushed much harder than she actually was. She tilted her head, lips forming a thin line. She blinked slowly and Clarke felt the atmosphere change, becoming chilly despite the heat of the fire. 

Lincoln practically leapt forward and grabbed the necessary leaves and time began to move again. Clarke cleared her throat.

“How long ago did this happen?” she asked, avoiding eye contact as she drew up her sleeves. She took a strip of leather and tied her hair behind her neck.

“Yesterday,” Lexa moved back to her side, standing rigidly with her hands clasped behind her back. Whatever small pretence of friendliness had left her, and her words were clipped and clinical. “There was an attack.”

“Clearly,” Clarke rolled her eyes as she contemplated where to begin stitching. It was a good thing that Boudica was unaware, because attempting to repair the mess of her back would be no small feat. Brushing the blood-matted hair from her patient’s shoulders, she spotted a gash which was apart from the others and looked free of fluid. It would be simple enough to treat. She lowered her needle to poke through the flesh either side. She tied a knot in the thread and snipped it free, then made another stitch and then another. 

As she fell into a rhythm, Clarke took a more detailed look at the woman she was treating. By the lines on her face, she could be placed in her mid-thirties, around as old as the average native expected to live. The muscles that tensed even in her unconscious state hinted at a lifetime of physical activity, and the scars on her right arm suggested she’d seen her fair share of combat. 

“She’s a warrior, right?” Clarke asked as she tied the last stitch of that particular cut. 

Curiously, she looked and found similar marks on both Lexa and Lincoln’s forearms. Octavia sported a fairly fresh red mark on her own right arm. What was troubling was that there hadn’t been major hostilities in the region for over ten years – since the Iceni had their weapons confiscated in an attempt to suppress any potential uprising. Walking through the village had already taught Clarke that they’d been stockpiling illegal arms, but Boudica, Lexa and Lincoln all looked like they’d seen actual combat. It would have been easy to dismiss Boudica as having fought in the initial Roman invasion, but the other two wouldn’t have been old enough at the time to even hold a weapon – even during the last small rebellion. 

Again, that was probably not an appropriate conversation for now. 

“She is our leader,” Lexa’s eventual reply brought Clarke back to her task. Lexa had snapped out of whatever thoughts she’d been stuck in, and leaned over to take the bowl of bloody water and move it away. “We need her.”

“I’ll do my best then,” Clarke caught her eye and gestured at the deepest of the wounds. “You were cleaning these before I came?” 

The reply was a short nod. 

“Keep doing that while I stitch. The cleaner we are now, the more likely it is to heal well.”

They worked methodically, Clarke pointing out which wound she would work on next so Lexa could clean it of any excess fluid or fibres from the discarded bandages. For some gashes too small to close with a needle, Clarke directed they be covered with a smear of the paste Lincoln had passably ground together. 

As they reached what appeared to be the midway point in their work, Lexa leaned in closer to Clarke and glanced over to where Octavia and Lincoln were trying to distract the two young girls with stories – currently one about the village smith singeing her eyebrows off. 

“Will she fight again?” The question was so low it was barely audible over the fire and Octavia’s animated shrieks. Clarke paused mid-stitch and turned her head. From the look on her face, it was a deeper question than the words implied. 

“Maybe, in time. We should probably make sure she’ll live first.” 

-

What felt like hours later, with the last stitch snipped clean and the last of the paste applied, Clarke stood and rolled her shoulders to stretch the tension from them. Lexa had gone to speak with the others across the room, so she took the opportunity to tidy her supplies away and assess her situation. 

She began by emptying the sack of her belongings so she could go about repacking it. In her haste, Octavia had thrown heavier items to the top and more delicate ones had fallen to the bottom to be crushed. She had no illusion that she could return home, so every little thing that had come from there became precious. The old, worn shoes that she’d been thinking about replacing suddenly gained new importance and she couldn’t imagine life without them – however short that may prove to be. 

Her mind brought her back to Octavia’s lie about an injured child which turned into a flogging victim and two–

She turned to watch the children at the back of the room interact with the adults. The younger one was still huddled into a ball and the other was fidgeting. There were purple marks around the elder’s upper arms, and from her position, Clarke could see the hint of similar ones around the younger’s neck. Perhaps they had been beaten for participating in whatever their mother had done, but not flogged? Both seemed skittish, so she approached in a loud enough manner that she wouldn’t startle them. 

She settled cross legged on the floor, placing her sack of belongings to one side. She’d arrived just in time to hear Lexa assure them that their mother had a good chance of healing well, that she’d live.  
“She’s going to be fine,” Clarke assured with a firm nod. She gave a small smile to the younger child, who looked to be around eight. Neither girl would meet her eyes. 

After a few moments of awkward silence, Lexa took Clarke by the shoulder and led her to the other side of the fire. She looked cautiously back at the others. Lincoln had launched into another tale, but his audience was barely paying attention. Instead, two pairs of eyes stared over the fire at them. 

“I doubt there is much you can do for them,” Lexa said quietly, “at least physically. Maeve - the elder of the two… she has bled recently and is a woman. If you can brew something to prevent pregnancy, we-” 

“Pregnancy?” Clarke’s eyes widened and she took a step backwards. “Is her husband hurting her?”

Lexa looked confused and then realisation spread across her face. She cursed under her breath and sent a short glare at Lincoln and Octavia. 

“They didn’t tell you,” her expression softened as she looked mournfully in turn at the children. She turned so they couldn’t be overheard and lowered her voice so Clarke had to lean in to hear. “They were both violated. It’s against your Roman laws to execute a virgin, so your soldiers took it upon themselves.”

Clarke suddenly felt lightheaded. 

“What happened to justify all of this?”

“Can anything justify it?” Lexa growled. Clarke shook her head quickly. 

“I just meant –” Clarke bit off her own words and felt herself tense up at the accusation of insensitivity in the face of it all. “Look, I have no idea what’s going on, I’ve been taken here against my will and I’ll bet anything you’re not about to let me go home. I was brought here to help these kids in ways you can’t, so how about you give me the information I need to treat them?”

Lexa raised her chin and flexed her jaw. Her brows lowered angrily, her mouth set into a challenging line. She said nothing.

“You don’t even know, do you?” Clarke continued bitterly. There was a dangerous look in Lexa’s eyes telling her she’d overstepped some invisible line. Her mind was screaming at her to stop, to be quiet but she’d already begun. “You weren’t even here, were you? You said Boudica was in pain when you arrived. Do you know anything about what happened?”

At that, Lexa took a slow step into Clarke’s space. Her expression was intimidatingly calm. Clarke had no time for Indra’s growls or hard words outside, but she withered under Lexa’s cool gaze. Her breath caught in her throat. 

“Finished?”

Clarke bit back the temptation to say for now, and nodded mutely. She stalked back to her sack and began mixing the tea she’d made many times for brides too young to safely bare children. As an afterthought, she also threw together a sweeter brew that would help calm the younger girl. 

-

Clarke was made to sleep in the small hut with the huge fire that night. Octavia had remained, more as a comfort to the girls as Clarke refused to speak with her. Lincoln and Lexa had left once the tea was finished and Boudica’s breathing had eased. 

Outside, a cockerel announced the coming morning. There was a sliver of light creeping through the space at the bottom of the doorway where the covering didn’t quite reach and Clarke shifted restlessly under the fur she’d been given. She’d slept poorly thanks in part to worry and frustration, and in part to the rough, cold floor of reed covered earth. 

Octavia was awake, and smiled a hopeful greeting that Clarke did not return. While she knew she’d have no choice but to talk to her once-friend at some point, she felt no hurry. Octavia’s face fell. If the silence was hard to bear, all the better. 

Slowly, Clarke rose and poked at the fire to get it going again, then set a pot of water above it to boil. She shredded the same leaves as the night before, and handed a fresh cup of tea to a wary Maeve. When she drew back to tidy, she was surprised to find a pair of piercing blue eyes staring up at her.

Clarke froze as Boudica checked her up and down. When their eyes met, a shiver ran down her spine. The penetrating gaze seemed to search her very soul, as though she could see something within her that she herself didn’t know.

“Have you come here to heal us or kill us?” 

The voice was gruff from sleep and slightly slurred from the poppy. At the sound, Maeve hurried over, tugging her sister with her. The girls stroked tearfully at their mother’s hair and were given a tight smile that told them not to worry. Maeve began a stuttering exclamation of thanks to the gods for seeing her awake. Clarke thought perhaps she should be thanked instead, having actually done the work herself. 

“I’m trying for the former and I’ll hopefully avoid the latter,” she answered. 

Boudica lifted her arms to push herself up, groaning with effort. Octavia scurried over to lend her hand, relief clear on her face. 

“Don’t move too much just yet,” Clarke warned, pressing her shoulder and avoiding the wounds. “Let me help you.”

With a small struggle, they managed to get her sitting, hair hanging over the front of her shoulders, brow wet with the pain of the small exertion. Her back was straight, the better to keep the stitches intact. She faced the wall, the angle giving Clarke a better look at the lattice of injuries. 

“Providing there’s no infection and you don’t push yourself too much, you should heal well enough.”

“Should I get Lexa?” Octavia asked uncertainly as she watched Clarke’s appraisal. Boudica didn’t turn to look but nodded, and she left. Boudica swayed unsteadily and put her hands to either side to support herself. She looked between her daughters and smiled through her pain. 

“My brave girls. Have you been well looked after?” the younger nodded, sliding herself up to her mother’s side without a word. Boudica hissed at the contact but didn’t push her away. Instead, she kissed the child’s head and petted her hair in a soothing gesture. 

“I assume you are to thank for helping us?” 

“Yes,” was all Clarke could say. Whatever questions she had for the red-haired woman refused to pass her lips. She had a feeling that many of the answers she sought would involve the flogged woman in some way. As Lexa had said the day before, Boudica was their leader. The only thing Clarke could think of to explain the severity of the wounds and the secrecy surrounding the incident was that Boudica had been inciting a rebellion. It was the only thing that made sense with the weapons and the clearly trained warriors and why she would clearly never see Camulodunum again. 

“Would- ” Clarke began to ask, hoping to have her fears allayed. She stopped herself as the door flap was thrust open and Lexa marched inside. She looked as though she hadn’t slept, dark circles under her eyes, hair a ragged mess. Boudica greeted her with a short nod.

“I came as quickly as I could,” Lexa said, her voice wavering slightly although she kept eye contact. Boudica seemed to catch the hesitation but accepted the words after a beat. 

“Of course, thank you.” Her unconvincing smile could have betrayed either pain or suspicion. “You would have been needed here had I been killed.” 

Lexa inclined her head in agreement, and sat next to the family. She went to place a comforting arm around Macha, but stopped abruptly, as though noticing it may not be appropriate. She shuffled further apart from her. Clarke, realising she had been staring, began grinding a fresh paste in a show of helpfulness. The two adult women followed the sound and regarded her. It was Lexa who eventually broke the silence. 

“You’ve done well, Clarke. Thank you for helping us.”

Clarke turned her gaze to the four of them. The family of three sat tightly together while Lexa wavered closer to the exit. She had half expected to end up dead and thrown in a river somewhere, but here she was being thanked for her services. 

“I took an oath to help anyone who needs it,” she explained with a shrug. 

“I was delirious at the time, but if I remember correctly, Octavia was the one who vouched for your skills,” Boudica sounded almost impressed. “Was she careful?”

The last words were meant for Lexa, who shook her head.

“I’ve been told she was not.”

“Then I’m sorry, Clarke, but you cannot go home.”

Clarke stopped moving the pestle in her hand, her brows knitting together as a bitter laugh choked out. 

“That much was obvious already.” 

Boudica looked at Lexa and her children, and nudged her girls gently.

“Maeve, Macha, could you two find Lincoln for me? It’s important.”

“But mother, you just woke up-,”

“Maeve,” the calmness was gone from Boudica’s voice. “I’m asking you because I trust you to do this. I need to talk with Lexa and Clarke, so I can’t send either of them. Please, do as I say.”

The younger, Macha, looked up at her mother worriedly. 

“I promise I’ll be fine. Lexa will look after me, won’t you?” Lexa nodded with a small smile. “Do as you’re told.” Reluctantly, but obediently, they left. 

Once the children were gone, Boudica let out a ragged breath and gestured for help. The effort of holding herself up had started to take its toll and she had Clarke and Lexa lowered her gently on her front. 

“You haven’t told our guest what happened, have you?”

Lexa looked uncomfortable and shook her head. Boudica frowned as she settled down. She waved the two of them off and they stepped back. 

“If you’re going to lead one day, you need to give your people explanations for the things you expect of them.”

“I’m not one of your people,” Clarke muttered with an eye-roll. She put the fire between herself and the other two women and resumed her grinding. Boudica eyed her with pursed lips. 

“Where are you from?” she asked as though it would matter. Everywhere to the south was under Roman occupation, and even before that, the various tribes had been through enough wars of their own to be on unfriendly terms. When Camulodunum had been held by the Trinovantes before the invasion, they had not been close allies of the Iceni. 

“Camulodunum,” Clarke replied. A look passed between Lexa and Boudica, with Boudica raising her eyebrows and Lexa furrowing hers. 

“How familiar are you with the Iceni? What do you know about us?” Boudica watched Clarke through the fire. The flames seemed to lick around her face and made her hair look as though it were part of it. 

“Only that you accepted Roman rule, but rebelled when your weapons were banned.”

“That we did,” Boudica nodded. “Our culture is a warrior one, based on honour and protecting our families. Some weapons are passed down from each generation to the next as extensions of those we’ve lost. Surely you can understand why we couldn’t just let them go?”

To Clarke, no heirloom was worth the lives of so many living people, but she knew better than to say so. She inclined her head in a non-committal way she hoped wouldn’t give her true thoughts away. 

“My husband, Prastutagus is – was the kind of man who had the vision to see that we could not win. We were beaten and bloody and by our honour we were not going to give up our rights. He brought us to our senses. We could fight and die for the sake of our iron, or we could live. We chose to live. Many of our weapons were hidden, many more were destroyed. The Romans made him our king for subduing us. There’s more to it, of course, but that is all that should matter to you.”

“He died only a week ago,” Boudica’s voice changed mournfully. “In his will, he left half of his ‘kingdom’ to the emperor and half to our daughters. He seems to have forgotten that the only reason our people saw him as legitimate was through me,” she scoffed, although there was real affection written on her face as she spoke of him. 

“By our laws, I am queen through blood and he had no right to divide our lands like this. The Romans, however, took offense because they believe that the emperor was always the rightful ruler and Prastutagus was merely a stand-in. For children, and female children at that, to have power is abhorrent to them. For me to rule until they are of age is so disgusting to them that they came to our lands to punish the three of us for something we did not ask for.

“They flogged me within an inch of my life and raped my young daughters and have the audacity to call us barbarian. We escaped only because they were foolish enough to believe we were no threat. Maeve is a woman and a warrior in training, I have many years of combat behind me. We were guarded by recruits who were easy enough to distract, even in our state. We escaped and found Indra, who brought us here.”

The tone of Boudica’s voice, which had been emotional as she recounted recent events, turned cold.

“And now we will have vengeance for the crimes against us. Not just for my family, but for all Iceni and all tribes under Roman rule. For all who have lost loved ones to their military for the sake of a distant emperor’s ego.”

“You’re going to lead them lying on your front?” Clarke could have kicked herself for saying that, but she saw only mild amusement on Boudica’s face.

“I will find a way. Even if I do not, I’m not the only person capable of leading our warriors to victory.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Next chapter: Clarke and Octavia have a confrontation; we see more of late iron age life as Boudica heals.


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Octavia and Clarke have a chat, Raven makes an appearance and Lexa tries to calm Boudica

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is a little late, but a million things got in my way that I'd rather not explain. There's a lot in the second part of this chapter that will be explained further as the story progresses.

Clarke bit angrily into the piece of flat bread she’d been given. A dog watched her eating with interest, inching forward in a way he probably thought was subtle, despite his large frame. He looked well fed, but his large, pleading brown eyes suggested that he’d not eaten in a month and Clarke’s bread would certainly save his life. He tilted his head in a manner that inferred he’d be eternally grateful for even the tiniest morsel. Clarke pointedly averted her gaze and caught sight of Octavia’s foot, reminding her that she wasn’t alone.

When the children had returned to the hut with Lincoln in tow, she had been banished outside where Octavia had been waiting to show her where to find food. Now the two of them sat awkwardly by a fire in the middle of the village, Clarke seething and still somewhat confused, and Octavia shifting uncomfortably.

“So you’ve been set to watch me,” Clarke said as she cleaned an apple on her sleeve. “To make sure I don’t run away?”

She’d never been good at keeping quiet for long. It was something that had been the source of endless amusement to her friends when she’d angrily chew out guards who’d been fighting and pulled their stitches, or yell at regulars who needed patching up again in the first place. Bellamy had once joked that she was the antithesis of the ideal, demure Roman woman and that was why she remained unmarried. She’d turned her yelling to him for that. He’d stopped laughing when she mentioned that she knew exactly where to hit him to shut him up permanently.

Octavia shook her head at Clarke’s question.

“No, I’m just here to make sure you know where everything is and that you settle in.”

“Yeah, it’s going great so far. When I’m finished here, I might take a walk and get myself skewered by some idiot with a sword.”

Octavia eyes went wide and she glanced around worriedly to make sure there was nobody in earshot. Thankfully the closest people were beyond hearing range and engaged in a conversation of their own.

“What the hell Clarke? Nobody’s going to hurt you.”

“Yeah? Tell that to the guy who spat at me.”

Clarke tossed the apple aside and threw the bread to the eager dog, suddenly not hungry. The hound scarfed the offering up without a second thought and looked hopeful for more. With a dissatisfied scowl on her face, Clarke grabbed her sack of belongings and slung it over her shoulder. Not looking back to see if she was being followed, she stalked back towards the hut she’d been kicked out of, hoping they’d finished whatever business she wasn’t supposed to hear.

“There are laws here,” Octavia jogged to catch up. “You’re a guest, so nobody can lay a hand on you unless you directly insult them. Like I told you yesterday, we needed your help, that’s why we brought you.”

Clarke turned on her heel, causing the other woman to bump into her as she hurried on.

“While we’re on the subject, why’d you lie to me?”

“If I had told you the truth would you still have come? ‘Hey Clarke, our anti-Roman leader has been given the reason she needs to rebel, so please heal her so we can go to war?’” Octavia waved her arms dramatically as she skirted around to block her path.

“You kidnapped me, Octavia, that’s what you did here. I was your friend and you betrayed me.” Clarke shook her head in exasperation, looking away. She knew she wouldn’t have travelled so far for an Iceni warmonger, but that wasn’t the point she was trying to make.

“I trusted you,” she said, her voice faltering. “I have friends in Camulodunum, people who depend on me, and now I can’t help them. Instead I’m here surrounded by strangers who spit and glare at me, and I can’t leave because I know too much.”

“It’s better here, if you let it be,” Octavia insisted. “People look after each other.”

“I look after people wherever I am, that’s my job. Who are you to say these people are more deserving of my help than anywhere else? What about Bellamy and your mom? She’s getting worse, Octavia, and he can’t help her alone.”

Octavia’s fiery gaze at last flicked to the ground with a hint of shame. She suddenly looked less the warrior and more like the shy girl she’d been before she ran away.

“I know,” she breathed, “I’m sorry Clarke, I didn’t mean for you to end up stuck here.”

“You actually expected them to let me go?” Given everything that had happened, the idea seemed ridiculous.

“I put it to Boudica and Indra, yeah. We were supposed to bring you here without being followed and take you home after...”

“But?”

Her face red in embarrassment, Octavia was deflating rapidly. She threw her arms up in defeat and let out an annoyed huff.

“I didn’t realise it was a test for me, to see how far I’d come. I should have blindfolded you or something so you wouldn’t be able to retrace your steps with anyone who questioned you.”

“So it’s completely your fault that I’m stuck here.”

“Like I said, I’m sorry. I still have a lot to learn.”

Octavia sounded sincere, but Clarke found it difficult to care. She was still too riled up to even think of accepting any kind of apology. With an exaggerated eye-roll, she gestured around herself to the surrounding village.

“Just make sure I know where everything is and leave me alone.”

Surprisingly, Octavia agreed. Clarke was relieved at the prospect of not being followed – at least openly. The thought of finding a dark corner to sulk about her predicament was the most comforting prospect for now.

The tour of the village was quite short. The entire settlement was surrounded by a palisade of thick wooden stakes, with a defensive ditch beyond that. Within the walls, there were a few animal pens; one contained a flock of chickens and in another, piglets suckled at the teats of a sow. As they passed one enclosure, an enthusiastic calf trotted up and tugged at Clarke’s sleeve, demanding a scratch behind its ear. Most of the animals were kept in fields beyond the wall, but certain exceptions were made for the very young or ill – or those deemed ‘special’. Clarke decided that the cow’s emotive brown eyes were the only thing she particularly liked so far.

Everything was connected via a well-trodden mud path, which was packed down through regular use in most places, but the edges were puddled with recent rain that seeped through Clarke’s sandals and made walking slippery. The buildings didn’t have a uniform layout that a Roman settlement would. Clarke could find few straight lines in the architecture and there was definitely no grid pattern to the pathways that she was used to relying on for orientation.

There was a midden for broken items and anything no longer of use, and a fenced off area for relieving oneself in a spot away from everything else. Sprigs of fragrant flowers and herbs were strung around its perimeter to mask the smell, but the effect was minimal. They didn’t linger there, instead moved on to pass by a stinking hut used for treating animal hides. A young woman there introduced herself as Niylah, and her smile had been far more welcoming than anyone else’s. Clarke made note of her name for later.

Their next stop was a small granary complete with a cat prowling for mice, and a dog watching over the cat, waiting for his chance. There were a few people hauling barrels full of the last of the autumn’s harvest inside in preparation for winter, and both animals bolted at the sight of them.

Once they reached the back of the settlement, they turned with the curve of the wall and started back towards the entrance to see the buildings on the other side. The houses were slightly larger on this side, and Octavia explained that it was because these were living spaces. Apparently, thanks to Boudica’s unexpected arrival, there had been an influx of visitors and it had been difficult to accommodate them all. For the time being, there were roundhouses for families, and unmarried or divorced people of each gender.

The idea of divorce was a foreign one to Clarke, and Octavia had a small smirk as she said that she’d found the concept strange at first too. By Roman law, only a man could divorce his wife freely. A woman had to be granted permission from the local government on grounds of adultery or abuse – which was rarely given and thus rarely requested.

As they reached the village entrance, they came across a small, half built roundhouse. Several upright stakes had been hammered into the ground, and hazel sticks were woven around them as wattle to create walls. A young man was slapping handfuls of brown daub over both the interior and exterior surfaces of the wattle, his face serious as he laboured. Clarke watched as another man, egged on silently by a group of friends, threw a ball of the sticky mud at the first man and burst into laughter.

The scene quickly devolved into a mud-slinging match as teams were called from the nearby cluster of cackling friends. Octavia pointed at Clarke as her excuse not to join in and when even Clarke was begged to assist the more serious of the two men, she declined with a small smile and shake of her head. It took mere minutes for someone to slip and land face first in the sodden dirt, uproar rose as she pulled two more down with her. Clarke and Octavia made their retreat as Indra stalked over with a tied bundle of reeds and barked at the revellers until they went back to work.

“They’re getting married,” Octavia inclined her head back at the now more sombre group, as though that explained everything.

“Indra?”

Octavia barely held back a sputter of amusement.

“No, the two men back there. As close to married as the clans do, I guess. There’s an exchange of vows to spend your life with someone, and then you make something together. It’s supposed to be a promise of the relationship on what you make, that you pour your heart into to prove the quality of your love. A lot of people build a home or start a new farmstead if they’re planning on having a family.”

Clarke noticed a slight blush dusting Octavia’s cheeks as she spoke, and wondered if she was planning to ‘build a home’ with Lincoln, or if she had already done so. Either way, she had no doubt that neither of them slept in the occupancies for ‘unmarried or divorced’ people.

At last, they reached the roundhouse that Octavia said was to be Clarke’s home, and the tour was over. They stood awkwardly at the doorway to the communal women’s space. While their time hadn’t been particularly unpleasant, Clarke still wasn’t in the state of mind for forgiveness, so she said nothing.

“Lexa said you can go wherever you want within the village,” Octavia offered. Clarke knew, she had been there when the words were spoken. She simply shrugged and waited, hoping her former friend would leave. After a few moments, Octavia took the hint and backed off, waving a hand in frustration as she headed towards the entrance, perhaps to help building.

“Go easy on her,” a voice said behind Clarke. She turned into the doorway of the roundhouse and peered into the darkness. A dark haired woman sat cross-legged in the gloom, poking at a fire so it would burn hotter. “She’s good in training but still a little green. She’ll get there.”

“Do I know you?” Clarke asked, with more venom than she intended. The woman paused her prodding and met her gaze.

“No. I’m Raven, and I guess you’re Clarke,” she said with a grin. “News travels fast around here. You have somewhere to be? Come sit.”

Clarke considered if she’d be expected to be doing a particular task, remembering that Octavia hadn’t given her any indication. She ventured further into the roundhouse. It was smoky and cluttered, and despite the slight chill outside, surprisingly warm. There were no windows, so the only light came from the doorway and the fire. There was a loom by the door, where the light was best for weaving, and a shelf above it was stuffed with bundles of variously coloured wool. Someone had recently begun a fresh bolt of fabric upon the loom – a solid red instead of the Iceni blue Clarke was becoming accustomed to.

The fire Raven was tending was in the back, well away from the door and the main fire that was heating the air. This one was smaller and more intense, and various tools Clarke couldn’t name or give a purpose were scattered around. Next to her, there were a few logs arranged for sitting, so Clarke settled herself on one and lowered her sack of belongings to lean on her leg.

“Do you know who you’re staying with yet?” Raven asked, gesturing at Clarke’s possessions. “I can tell you where you need to put that.”

“I-,” Clarke hesitated, trying to think back if Octavia had mentioned it. “I’ll be staying in here?”

Raven shook her head, and waved her hand around. Lining the walls were sets of two and three bundles of fur, clearly meant for sleeping in. Some were haphazardly strewn aside by their previous occupants; others were neatly rolled up. There were wattle partitions between each set, in a small display of privacy.

“You’re a guest, so according to law you need someone to make sure you have everything you need. They look after you for a few days, invite you into their home – I guess that’s not happening given the state of things, but you get the idea.”

“I guess Octavia then? Since she was the one who brought me here.”

“No, she can’t do that yet. There’s all kinds of stupid tests before anyone considers you an adult, and she hasn’t taken them all. So she can’t take responsibility for a guest.”

“Oh.”

“If nobody else wants to, you’re welcome to stay with me until you settle in. It’s kinda lonely since Anya went north.”

Clarke wondered whether ‘settle in’ meant that she’d be expected to sit quietly and accept that she was now a slave to whatever whims the people there had. Legionaries she’d known back home had regaled anyone who would listen about the strange practices of the natives, how their Druids could make their souls leave their bodies at will, and how they sacrificed not only animals, but also people to their barbarian gods.

“Things aren’t usually so hectic around here,” Raven finally finished poking her fire. She shuffled backwards and grabbed a small pot attached to a long handle. “I get the culture shock you’re going through though, I’m from Londinium myself. Well, that’s where I lived for a few years anyway.”

That surprised Clarke; the idea that someone from a such a vibrant Roman town had been integrated into the village, seemingly with the same status and responsibilities of any other adult. She’d never been to Londinium, but its reputation preceded it. It had been established fairly recently and grown into a centre for trade from the continent. She wondered briefly if Raven’s owner had been one of the many who had come from abroad seeking their fortune in the past few years.

“Do you have a job around here?” Clarke asked, purposely avoiding the subject of Raven’s invitation, at least until she knew more.

“Yeah, turns out that after years of being beaten up for not cleaning my owner’s armour just right, I’m actually better at making it. Well, making things to go through it.” She smirked, then held up her long handled pot when she saw Clarke’s look of confusion. “I’m a smith. Arrow and spear heads are my specialty.”

“You’re a freed slave?”

“More like escaped,” she snorted and shrugged. “Yeah, there’s a very angry ex-legion guy out there just sitting in his own filth because he doesn’t have a pretty young thing washing his unmentionables. Or maybe he does, I don’t know. I got out a few years ago.”

Raven emptied a pouch of metal pellets into her pot and considered for a moment, before taking a pinch back out. She settled it in the flames and grasped a pair of tongs, clacking the ends together experimentally. She looked around and clicked her fingers, pointing at a lump of clay beside Clarke.

“Could you bring me that?” she asked, and Clarke did as she was bid, still somewhat nervous. “Just put it down there.”

As soon as she was close, she nudged Clarke conspiratorially.

“I’m making new spear heads,” she explained, whispering regardless of the fact that they were alone. “I love that this is technically illegal.”

Clarke smiled despite herself.

-

Lexa stared into the flames as Boudica talked to Lincoln about… something. She knew she should have been paying attention, instead of burning firelight into the back of her eyes. Ever since she’d arrived in Indra’s village, she’d been having trouble concentrating. It had been easy to blame it on worry for Boudica and her family, but in her heart she knew there was more to it.

“-march, don’t you agree?”

She stirred from her thoughts at the question directed at her, head snapping around to look at Boudica. She blinked hard to adjust her eyes, light dancing across them.

“I’m sorry?”

Lincoln gave a soft smile of sympathy while Boudica frowned and gripped the stick she was using to hold herself up.

“I was saying,” the older woman spoke sharply, “that we should march as soon as I’m able.”

Lexa stood as a way of preventing herself from getting lost in the fire again. She looked warily at Boudica, trying to gauge her pain level, and thus her mood. Vengeance had been at the forefront of the injured woman’s mind all morning. Boudica’s wish to wage war on the Romans had been brewing for several long years, even before Prastutagus’ death, even before the attack on her family. Lexa knew her mentor missed combat the way she herself missed a good night’s sleep.

Since she’d come of age, Boudica had sent her west to spend summers aiding the Silures and the Ordovices in their resistance, and joined her on occasion when her duties allowed. She’d gone to war barely older than Maeve and while excited to spill blood at first, the reality had quickly hardened her. War was such a large part of their culture, but its effect on the soul were rarely mentioned in the tales of old glory the children were told huddled at the knees of their parents. Watching the light fade from enemy and ally alike took its toll.

One positive thing from the experience was that it had made her a more strategic thinker. The Roman troops had far more discipline than the warriors of the clans, and the old tactics were no longer effective. The resistance fighters she’d shared campfires and battled alongside had praised her ideas and begged her to stay longer, for just one more ambush, just one more night, just one more kill. Some had clapped her on the back heartily, proclaiming that greatness was simply in her blood, that of course she was destined to bring them glory. She wasn’t so sure. She’d just been trying to survive. She’d been more relieved than she’d like to admit every time she’d been called back to quieter lands.

The current conversation required tactics. Boudica had always been in possession of a fiery temper, and it was only made worse by her current predicament. She wanted to fight, and if left to her own devices, she would order a march as soon as she could stand and get herself and their people killed; the people she’d sworn to protect. Lexa needed to be the voice of reason.

“We should march,” she agreed after a moment’s consideration, knowing they would regardless. “But not before you’re healed. Not just until your wounds heal over or you can hold yourself by yourself. You must be able to throw your own spear as well as any other, if you’re going to inspire our people to fight at their best.”

Boudica frowned, as though that had not been part of her plan. She had plenty of generals who could lead an army, of course, but the pacified clans needed a figurehead. Many of the older population had fought alongside Boudica and the other kings and queens at the invasion twenty years ago, and would follow her for the memory. The younger ones might follow the legend.

“And who knows how long that will take?” she asked impatiently. “My people are doubtless outraged at what the Romans have done, but how long will that last?”

Lexa tossed the thought around in her head. Boudica had been flogged only two days ago, and was unconscious for one of them. The Iceni had been so downtrodden for so many years, there were a number of ways they could react, but they had no way of knowing which it would be. It was true, they could indeed be outraged at the treatment of their queen. There was also the possibility that they would take it as yet another inevitable blow to their way of life and a step closer to full Roman occupation. She licked her lips, not prepared to say that out loud.

“People will not rally behind you if they think you are too weak to fight your own battles.”

“They will rally behind me because they’re my subjects,” Boudica spat. If she’d been able, Lexa was sure she would have been slapped. Instead, she glowered and tightened her grip on her staff further, her knuckles turning white with the pressure. Perhaps gentleness would fare better.

“You can’t go to war like this,” Lexa said, walking over to kneel at her side, clasping her hand to loosen it slightly. She gestured over her wounds pointedly. “And winter is almost here. We can’t march our people through the snow, regardless of their loyalties. People will die without reason, and it will be our fault.”

“If we don’t go soon, we will lose momentum. Indra tells me people are flocking here because they want to help.”

“They are. But we need more if we’re going to make any kind of difference. We need every warrior we can muster. Give yourself time to heal, and give us time to gather everyone else.”

Boudica seemed to consider her words, her expression pensive. After a moment, she softened slightly, and gave a small nod for Lexa to continue her proposal.

“Winter here away from prying eyes, and send scouts to anyone we can trust. When the snows begin to melt, return to your home fort and call in your loyalties under cover of celebrating the coming spring. We’ll have the support we need, and our enemies will be none the wiser.”

“We will need more than the Iceni,” Boudica admitted at last. Lexa was relieved that she had reached that conclusion herself. She knew where the conversation would turn next, so she stood and backed off a few paces to compose herself. “Did you find any allies in the south?”

Lexa shrugged dismissively. On orders, her autumns were spent playing politics further south, where Roman sympathies were higher, but old loyalties still lingered. Things changed little from year to year, but it gave her perspective on the way the invaders were treating the other clans. It served as a distraction from the inescapable thoughts of death, if nothing else.

“Things may have changed since the Romans attacked your family,” she began, pacing as she spoke. “There are a few clans who would have come to our side before that, although they would only join us if we can prove ourselves. The Catuvellauni and the Trinovantes will support us if we’re strong enough, while the Regnenses and the Cantiaci are too close to Rome and have no interest in helping.”

“As we knew they would be,” Boudica muttered. Lexa knew she wasn’t offering any new information; it was the same every year. She looked over a Lincoln expectantly. “Has Anya sent word from the north?”

Lincoln spread his hands out in a non-committal gesture.

“As far as the Brigantes go, Cartimandua continues with her allegiance to Rome. She refuses to answer Anya’s requests for an audience, but Venutius is putting pressure on her. He may be our way in with them. As for the Coritani and the Parisii – they’re itching for a fight and they don’t care who with.”

“We should use that before they turn on each other,” Boudica pointed out, a small smile breaking through. “Perhaps we should recall Anya, if she can’t get through to Cartimandua.”

Lexa abruptly stopped in her tracks and spun on her heels.

“You would do that? After everything?” her eyes narrowed and her fists clenched.

“No,” Boudica said after a moment, regarding her with a cool stare. “But we might focus more on Venutius. He’s more likely to listen to us. We’ll inform Anya that-”

“Send me,” Lexa was suddenly on her knees by her side again, grasping at Boudica. “Let me go and plead our case myself.”

“You will not beg,” Boudica’s voice was suddenly stern, and she pushed the touch away. “No, that is one thing you can’t do. I understand that you want to go, but I will not let her hand you to the Romans too, we need you. Guard your emotions, Lexa, they will do you no good.”

Lexa ripped her hand away and was on her feet again, fingers twitching. In any other situation, it would have been amusing that she had been trying to tell Boudica that she, too, needed to step back and think. She took a deep breath and stilled herself. She had always been too emotional in dealings that affected her personally and had spent her life trying to suppress it – with varying results. That, she’d been told, was a family trait, too.

“There’s something else,” she breathed, closing her eyes in an attempt to find her composure. “The Silures and the Ordovices have lost too many and so few of us go to help them that they’re losing focus.”

“We’ve given them plenty,” Boudica snapped. Her left arm was shaking where she held onto her staff. Her pain was making her more irritable than she would have otherwise been. “How many summers have you spent fighting fruitless battles by their sides?”

Of course, Lexa made no mention that she’d been there on orders. Instead, she continued with the rest of the news she brought from the south.

“The Romans have pacified enough of the west to look elsewhere. Come spring, the legions will march on Mona. They’ve destroyed our way of life and now they will destroy our spirits.”

The news silenced Boudica, which was no mean feat. The fire in her eyes, which had been built from the hope of war dwindled a little. Mona was sacred. The Druids made their home there, they studied there for most of their lives and it was through them that the rest of the clans could communicate with the gods. The gods walked that island freely and made their wills known in the ripples of the waters and the swaying of the trees and the very breath of the people so devoted to them. For all their differences, Mona was the one place all the clans held dear.

The Druids who lived and breathed the god-filled air of Mona had such influence over the clans that the Romans gave no illusion about hating them. One word from a Druid could send entire families from their homes to fight armies better equipped and trained, and none would give up to their last breath. Even beyond Britannia, their impact was felt – even in the supposed conquered and cowed Gaul.

It was suddenly all too clear that the clans of eastern Britannia had placed far too much weight on the shoulders of their western cousins. While many in the east had enjoyed fine wines and the worst of traitors sent their children to learn with the best of Rome’s scholars, the west had been failing. They were the last line of defence for the sacred isle that meant so much to so many people, and they were spent.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Next chapter: Finn investigates Clarke's disappearance, Clarke tries to adjust to her situation


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry this chapter's taken so long guys...
> 
> I thought over the plan for the story and had to change a few things around to prevent a massive, pointless detour. 
> 
> Thanks to everyone who left comments and kudos. I want to reply to the old ones, but it feels like I've left it too long and it'd be awkward? I'm just so humbled that people have enjoyed this I don't know what to say. I'm going to be more diligent going forward!

Finn hurried through the streets, avoiding moving bodies and yelling vendors trying to sell the last of their wares. As night fell over Camulodunum, most people were plodding home to their families and their beds, but his destination was entirely on the opposite side of town. As soon as his shift had ended, he’d ripped his helmet off and started at a run towards the old converted barracks, where he knew Bellamy would be waiting, hopefully with good news. He needed to know that Clarke had come back – that she was safe.

The building was ominously quiet as he approached. The outer door swung open as his footsteps crunched through the dirt and Bellamy’s head peeked out, his expression falling immediately. It told Finn all he needed to know and his heart clenched at the sight. He slowed his pace and nodded his greeting, a grim smile not reaching his eyes. Bellamy held the door and gestured for him to enter.

They paused at Clarke’s door. Finn had to stop his hand from automatically rising to rap his knuckles on the frame – there was no point, after all. He pushed the door open slowly, as though entering without permission would cross some line of privacy. Stepping inside, he blinked as his eyes began to adjust to the gloom.

“Wait,” Bellamy muttered, before disappearing next door. Muffled shuffling and murmurs of _no, just go back to sleep_ filtered through the thin walls. He reappeared a moment later, a freshly lit torch sputtering in his hand.

The single room looked much the same as it always had with its unkempt sleeping area and rickety table piled high with bowls in need of cleaning. Tidiness had never been one of Clarke’s strong points – there was always something more important to be doing. Notable, however, was the lack of healing supplies. Normally, there would be a collection of herbs strung up along the walls to dry, and the odd spool of thread for stitching lacerations. The pegs upon which clothing normally hung were empty.

“She didn’t say anything?”

“Nothing,” Bellamy growled. They’d already had this conversation, but it couldn’t hurt to go over what few facts they had. Finn frowned in sympathy. The situation was far too similar to Octavia’s disappearance. Bellamy had been broken by the loss of his sister, and this was no doubt reopening those wounds. “She said she’d visit last night, but she never showed up. I don’t think she came home at all yesterday.”

Finn tried to recall his brief conversation with Clarke the previous morning. She’d been a little jittery, but nothing had suggested anything was going wrong with her. He cursed himself for being more interested in a stupid dice game, for not paying more attention to his friend. There had to have been something he’d missed, maybe some cry for help. He couldn’t believe he’d joked about her getting kidnapped – and now she was gone and nobody knew where.

“She didn’t have anything with her when she left town yesterday,” he said, going over everything he could remember about their exchange. “She came by in the morning, saying she was going to get more herbs-”

“She just went a few days ago,” Bellamy interrupted, accusation in his tone.

“I don’t keep tabs,” Finn insisted, although of course he knew. He knew exactly how many times she’d been out recently; he’d even accompanied her once, listening to her ramble on as she picked plants he didn’t recognised and placed them in - “I don’t think she had a basket or anything to put them in.”

Bellamy’s nostrils flared in annoyance. His stance was tense and by the way he was gripping the torch, Finn wouldn’t be surprised if it broke. Whatever had happened, Clarke had clearly lied about where she was going.

“Clarke’s not stupid. I’m sure wherever she is, she’ll be fine.”

“She left. Let that sink in. After everything, she packed up and left, and the only thing I can think is that she’s gone with Octavia to join some stupid rebellion and get herself killed.”

“Hey, we can’t know that,” Finn insisted, stepping into Bellamy’s space. The Clarke he knew would help anyone who needed her, including rebels, but she wouldn’t deceive her friends in the way Bellamy was suggesting. Everything he knew about her contradicted the implication. Clarke had no affiliation with the clans, beyond covertly helping patch up a few who found themselves injured and hiding out.

Bellamy however, seemed to be having trouble seeing past the idea that his trust had been betrayed again.

“She’s gone, everything she’d take is gone. What does that say?” He was fuming, spare arm thrusting out to gesture around the room.

“Think about what you’re saying Bellamy. Clarke isn’t the kind of person to just up and leave for no reason-”

“She obviously had a reason, Finn, wake up.”

“Yeah, like she didn’t do this herself.”

Bellamy looked at Finn like he was insane.

“I told you she didn’t have anything with her when she left. I talked to the other guys on watch, nobody saw her come back or leave again. You yourself said she didn’t come home yesterday.”

Bellamy shifted his weight uncomfortably, aware suddenly of Finn’s point. He rubbed at his chin with his spare hand.

“Someone came back for her clothes. You think my sister took her.”

“I don’t know, but it’s a possibility. Give me time to look into it. Murphy’s in town, he might know something from his underground buddies. I’ll find him, see if he’ll talk.”

“I’ll come with you. I have to.”

Finn wondered whether allowing Bellamy to join him would be a good idea. His quick temper often brought more trouble than they needed, and he wasn’t in the best mental state at that moment. Still, the look on his face brooked no argument. He was determined to go. Perhaps any news of Clarke would lead to Octavia, and Finn couldn’t deny his friend the closure that might bring.

-

Even though he was skulking in a dark alleyway, Murphy proved easy to find. It was just a case of greasing the right palms and asking the right questions to the right lowlife. Thankfully, Finn knew plenty of lowlifes from his line of work.

When Murphy saw him coming, the slippery bastard tried to about-turn and run. He grabbed his bag of what was likely stolen goods and made to leave – and realised that his only escape route through the other end of the alley was blocked by Bellamy’s large frame.

“What can I help an upstanding citizen like yourself with, _guardsman_?” he drawled as he turned back around. He dropped what he was carrying and leaned back onto the wall as though nothing were amiss.

Murphy wasn’t well liked by anyone in authority in Camulodunum. He was a Caledonii trader from the far, untamed north, and although he was suspected to have less than scrupulous business methods, there was never enough proof. Or rather, he didn’t stick around long enough to leave any.

As it was, Murphy had rolled into town three days prior on a swaybacked pony he’d since mangaged to swap for twice its worth in raw iron. His wagon had been filled with - he claimed – surplus grain from the highlands. It seemed unlikely.

Now, he was caught between a guardsman and an ex-auxiliary recruit. He lifted his tunic above the hem of his trousers to show that he had no hidden weapon and let it drop, perhaps in the hope that he’d be allowed to be on his way.

“Relax, Murphy, I’m not here on official business.”

“Right, of course. Unfortunately, the only business I do _is_ official, so I’ll be on my way,” he flicked his eyes towards Bellamy, who hadn’t moved an inch from the alley’s exit. “I really don’t know what you want from me.” 

Finn took a step closer, although he maintained a respectful distance – just in case.

“Just some information. I hear you know people.”

“Aye, I do know people. I doubt they’re the kind you want to talk to.”

“Don’t play games, you know Octavia left. And now Clarke’s gone too,” Bellamy had surged forward, barely holding himself back from grabbing the wiry man and shaking information out of him. If Murphy didn’t spill what he knew soon, he’d likely be picking his own teeth out of the dirt.

“Why would I know anything about that?” the trader was being a little too brave with his words. Perhaps he did have a weapon after all. Finn scanned him up and down for any tell-tale bumps in places they shouldn’t be. He didn’t see anything out of place, but that didn’t mean there was nothing there.

“Murphy, talk to me, ignore Bellamy. If you know Octavia and Clarke are safe, that’s all I need. I’m not trying to get caught up in anything over my head. I’m off duty.” 

Murphy considered for a moment, eyeing Bellamy with suspicion.

“Last I heard, Octavia was fine. Couldn’t say about Clarke.”

Finn breathed a sigh of relief and nodded.

“Thank you. That’s half of what I wanted to hear, which is better than nothing. If I asked you to keep your ear to the ground about Clarke, would you? Like I said, I just want to know she’s alright.”

“Aye, I suppose I could do that. But I’ll only be here a week, mind you.”

Finn nodded and signalled for Bellamy to back down.

“Alright. Let me know if you find something. If I don’t hear anything, I’ll assume you don’t know anything.”

Bellamy looked angrier than ever, but there was a certain way to talk to Murphy to get what you wanted out of him. Murphy dealt in favours, and Finn just hoped he’d built up enough.

-

Octavia was having trouble sleeping. The bruises she’d acquired through training throbbed and her limbs ached and her mind was too busy. She couldn’t stop thinking about what Clarke had said that morning, about her mother being worse. She’d had a passing glimpse when in Camulodunum, but somehow hearing the words made it more real. Bellamy wouldn’t be able to cope on his own – his strategy had always been to throw himself into work, and now he didn’t have that escape. The most she could hope for was that their other friends would be able to support him.

She opened her eyes as a rush of cold air signalled someone entering the hut. She turned, the furs she was wrapped in lifted, and Lincoln slid beside her. He’d shed his trousers and tunic, so they laid skin to skin. He offered a gentle smile and she felt it deep inside, warming her against the chill.

“How did it go?” she asked as an arm snaked around her waist.

“Lexa’s trying to convince Boudica to wait for spring. It makes sense.”

That surprised Octavia. With the way the village had been talking, half of them were expecting to march into battle any day. People had been trickling in from the surrounding villages in anticipation, their family swords dug up from their hiding places and shields freshly polished.

“Boudica needs to be fully healed,” Lincoln explained, “so we have a figurehead the people will follow. Not to mention, Roman troops will be heading back to safe towns for winter. It’ll be more dangerous to attack when they’re full.”

Octavia nodded and ran a finger up his arm. Camulodunum was their most obvious target. The town had outgrown its original defences from before the invasion, and the Romans had yet to build more around their capital. While she knew it was inevitable, and she held no love for the place, she wasn’t sure she could take part in any actions against her home town just yet. She was determined to find a way to protect anyone she still cared about there, to find a way to get her mother and brother out to safety.

Of course, Bellamy wouldn’t be easily persuaded, given the way they had parted. Before she’d left, they’d been arguing more than was usual. He’d been determined to join the legions as an auxiliary, despite the offense it would cause their friends. Monty, Jasper and Finn all had ties to pre-Roman Camulodunum, and their families still practiced some form of the old religion in the privacy of their homes. Each of them played their part in public, but otherwise had little ways of rebelling. Monty and Jasper were good with harmless pranks and inconveniencing officials, while Finn was sometimes more lenient in who he let into the town than he should have been.

“And how was _your_ day?” Lincoln asked, his hand sliding up to weave his fingers in her hair. The action broke her out of her thoughts. “I was half expecting a house-guest.”

“Clarke still won’t talk to me,” she said with a small huff. “She’s staying with Raven, I think.”

Lincoln nodded and shuffled a little, pressing a kiss at her temple.

“And your day?”

“Busy. I helped Allan and Powell for a while, then trained with Indra. She seemed tense.”

Helping with the building had been a learning experience. Everyone had been working under Indra’s supervision, and they managed to get most of the outer wall constructed quickly. They’d begun erecting beams to tie bundles of thatch to in order to make a roof. Admittedly, she’d been a little lost when a few people had begun arguing about the angle the beams needed to be set at – some wanted to try a shallower slope than usual, while others argued that they should be mindful about damage from rain or snow and make it steeper. It was all rather alien for someone who had grown up surrounded by plaster walls and tiled roofs.

When Indra had ordered her to leave them to their bickering and begin training, she’d been relieved. There had been nothing she could contribute, but she knew where she stood when it came to fighting. A few practice rounds later she’d begun to question herself. Perhaps the arguing had ruined any semblance of civility in Indra, because the bruises all over Octavia’s body could attest to her foul mood. At first she’d thought it had been a punishment for failing her mission, but other apprentice warriors were soon falling under her mentor’s ire.

Octavia rolled her shoulder, reminded of the ache. Lincoln pressed his fingers into the muscles there and she melted into his touch.

“She wants you to take your combat tests before we move,” he said. His voice betrayed that he wasn’t entirely on board with the idea. While she appreciated his caution, the idea excited Octavia. If Indra thought she was ready for the tests, then she thought she was ready for the front lines. The prospect of staying back with the young or worse had been the source of a lot of her worries.

She’d expected to wait at least another half a year, especially after bungling bringing Clarke back. Part of her wished that Lincoln had told her that it had been a test, but that would have defeated its purpose. She’d failed, and she refused to do so again. She promised herself she’d double down on every aspect of her training and come away better for it.

“Still,” she murmured, glad the day was over. “There’s one thing good about how things turned out.”

Lincoln raised an eyebrow in question. With a mischievous grin, she swung one leg over to straddle him, hands planted firmly on his chest. She looked down at his amused expression and bit her lip.

“At least without any visitors, I get you all to myself.”

-

Clarke’s day and night had been quiet. She’d spent her time helping Raven, passing and carrying items she needed. In the evening, women had filtered into the roundhouse for food and sleep. A few had offered short greetings, but mostly they were indifferent to her presence. They had partnered off for private discussions or sleep in their partitioned areas. The only other person she knew was Lexa, who had been the last to arrive, and she had simply given a sharp nod before settling closest to the door, alone.

A day later, and Clarke felt no more welcome. She’d wandered outside and stood by the animal pens, huddled under a borrowed blue cloak, scratching behind the ear of the calf she’d met. It nuzzled at her hand between pats, eager for more contact.

“Don’t get attached,” a voice came from behind her. She didn’t need to look back to know who it was. Lexa had been following her since mid-morning. At least Raven had been subtle about watching her and given her something to do, but Lexa just stood nearby, just within her field of vision.

From the corner of her eye, Clarke could see Lexa cleaning a dagger. She hadn’t seen her use it on anything to require the action, but perhaps it was just something to do. She was leaning on the top rung of the fence, running a fingernail along the breadth of the blade in her search for imperfections and buffing at them with a cloth. From what she could see, it was old, the hilt intricately decorated in bronze. Clarke wondered for a moment if the weapon was ceremonial. Lexa held it reverently, and it certainly looked as though it had been passed down a few generations.

“He’s the only one here who doesn’t hate me,” she said with a spark of bitterness in her voice.

“Does that say something, I wonder?”

When she turned to see a blank, unsmiling face, she couldn’t tell if it had been a joke or not.

“Do you have a problem with me too?”

“No. I just wanted to tell you it would be foolish to get attached when he’s probably going to be sacrificed to Andraste in mid-winter.”

Clarke’s hand slowed her petting, but kept her hand on the calf’s head. She remembered Octavia telling her it was only the ill or special animals which were kept inside the settlement. It just then clicked into place that _special_ might mean _to the gods_. He nudged her insistently as she eyed the dagger in Lexa’s hand.

“Oh.”

Sacrifice was something that all religions did to some extent, so it wasn’t all that surprising. There were various cults the Romans dabbled with. Along with their own, some adopted local gods from conquered cultures and many of them desired blood. While she knew a little about the old tribal gods of the region from her friends, she didn’t know of their specific rituals. She just hoped it would be painless.

“Why Andraste?” she asked, trying to swallow down the lump that formed in her throat. This was one of the gods she’d heard about in passing – a goddess with no place in the subjugated culture she’d lived in.

“The Iceni revere her most of all the gods. They will ask her for her blessing, that they may be granted victory in the battles to come.”

Lexa had a strange expression on her face that Clarke wasn’t sure how to interpret. There was annoyance in the set of her mouth, but her eyes were softer, almost regretful. Still, the knowledge that the Iceni were praying to Andraste for luck meant that they had plans for their revenge, and it would likely be soon.  

“You say that like you’re not the same.”

Lexa hesitated. Something like doubt flashed in her eyes that Clarke probably wasn’t supposed to see. 

“I’m the same. I’ll ask Andraste’s blessing, but Camulos is a part of me, and I always ask Brigantia for mercy.”

Clarke thought for a moment to remember which god was which. Camulos, she knew plenty of, because her own home town had been named for him. The Romans equated him with their war god Mars, and so far as she knew the comparison was close enough. As for Brigantia though, she knew her only in passing as a mother goddess worshiped more fervently by the Brigantes clan in the north. Still, she didn’t feel the need to show her ignorance by asking further questions. She turned fully from the calf, who snorted in displeasure and trotted off to the other side of his pen.

Clarke refocused on Lexa, who noticed the eyes on her and slid her dagger into her sleeve, out of sight. She met Clarke’s gaze evenly with a slight tilt of her head, waiting for her to speak.

“Why are you following me?”

“You’re worried that people dislike you enough to hurt you,” Lexa raised her eyebrows as though the answer was obvious. Octavia must have reported their conversation from the previous day.

“Octavia said there were laws to stop that from happening. You don’t need to be here.”

“Do your people always follow laws?” Lexa’s eyes held a challenge in them, daring her to disagree.

“Don’t pretend you’re here to look out for me,” Clarke hissed. “You’re here because you think I’m going to take off the second I get the chance.”

“Are you telling me you won’t? You’re talking about it now, so the thought has crossed your mind.”

It had. She wouldn’t deny it. There’d been a minute in the middle of the night when everyone around her had been asleep, where she’d been half tempted to run. She’d been next to Raven, who’d sighed in her sleep and wriggled closer, and the moment had passed. She didn’t even know the way.

“Octavia said I wouldn’t be hurt unless I insulted someone. I just bet there’s people waiting for me to slip up. I’m pretty sure running and disrespecting your _hospitality_ by running would count.”

She slapped her hand on the top of a fence post, grasping and leaning on it to steady herself as she thought bitterly about the situation. Lexa didn’t try to assure her that everything would be fine and that she’d find a place if she just settled down and accepted that this was her life now. She was strangely grateful for the lack of empty platitudes that Octavia, and even Raven to some extent had piled on her.

“I won’t lie to you Clarke; our people can be harsh. They live hard lives, and they’re protective over what they have.”

It was true that many of the people scared her. The people who had started to arrive from nearby villages were mostly warriors old enough to have had something taken from them by the Romans. Some had lost loved ones and land they thought of as their own. Some were simply farmers who were tired of giving chunks of their harvest to people who did nothing but terrorise them.

But, she’d never known anything else. With empire came security. The Romans were conquerors by design and they brought civilisation wherever they went. Lives improved. Yes, sometimes the Romans were brutal, but so were the clans, and they now seemed determined to prove it by avenging their queen.

“You’re going to destroy my home, aren’t you?” she asked. Lexa shook her head.

“I hadn’t planned on it. Camulodunum belonged to the clans long before it was Roman. I’d rather retake it. It’s not my decision though.”

There was an honesty in her tone, but that didn’t make it any better. Either way the Iceni chose, her home wouldn’t be her _home_. It would be sieged and ransacked and completely wrecked to make it unrecognisable. It had been built as it was during her lifetime, but she couldn’t remember how it had looked before the uniform roads and buildings. There had probably been roundhouses there at some point, shrines to ancient unknowable gods and more, but she couldn’t recall them. To Clarke, Camulodunum was plaster and tile and marble and stone.

She didn’t have anything more to say to Lexa after that, but she didn’t have anywhere else to be. She stood there, propped against the fence, waiting and hoping Raven might come by and ask her to carry something she could clearly manage herself. She needed something to do to keep from feeling sorry for herself.  

“If you’re finished with the cow, do you have a moment? I’d like you to look over Boudica’s wounds.”

Clarke had more than a moment, and Lexa knew that. She had so much free time, she didn’t know what to do with it. That was the reason she was with the calf in the first place – she’d been given no role to fulfil.

“I guess,” she said with a shrug. Lexa didn’t wait any longer, she simply turned and headed back to the hut where the injured leader was recuperating.

When Clarke pushed back the doorflap, she saw Boudica sitting upright, rolling her shoulders to strengthen the muscles. She’d forgone her tunic, the fabric likely uncomfortable on her tender back. 

“Wait until the wounds close properly before you start that. You’ll only open them up again,” Clarke admonished. Boudica’s eyes flashed with annoyance, but Lexa nodded in agreement.

“Recovery will only take longer if you push yourself too hard.”

“You brought her here to back you up?” Boudica continued her exercise, undeterred. She seemed thoroughly irritated by the interruption.

“No. Clarke is here because you’ve been refusing to let me check your progress.”

Clarke frowned and took a few steps closer.

“If you were to get infected, it’d be around now,” she gathered her doctor’s courage and placed her hand on Boudica’s forehead. There was heat there and a slight dampness. “You feel warm, and it may not be from the exertion. Let me see your back.”

It looked for a moment, that Boudica was going to argue. Her face hardened and she looked between Lexa and Clarke, a challenge in the angle of her eyebrows. Clarke met it with a raise of her own. Boudica the woman might have power over her life, but Boudica the patient was under her care.

“Be quick.”

Clarke swept around Boudica to examine the wounds. The stitches were holding well, for the most part. There were a few places where they’d been stretched by regular movement, but there was little that could be done about that if Boudica refused to stay still. The patches covered with poultice needed to be cleaned to examine what lay beneath more closely.

“Lexa, could you get me some -,”

Lexa was already there, holding out a bowl of water and a cloth. Once they were handed over, she fussed about gathering herbs to make more paste. Her face had a worried set to it, lips pressed together, eyes down as she worked.  

“Thank you.”

Clarke worked on soaking the dried patches of poultice off, starting at the shoulders. To peel it off as dried as it was would aggravate the wounds and potentially open them up again, so she needed to take care. As patches fell away, most places looked to be on the way to closing over.

“Everything looks to be holding together. I’d suggest leaving the poultice off on most places for now. It’s done its work and now some fresh air would be of better use to keep it from festering.”

Boudica seemed pleased with that, her shoulders no longer tense. She allowed Clarke to continue her work without complaint.

“I’m glad to hear that,” Boudica said as Clarke scraped away at a particularly dried on patch. “I won’t forget what you’ve done for me.”

Clarke wouldn’t forget it either. This was a woman who was promising to destroy her home, and she had saved her life. It had been under duress, yes, but she had still done it. She bit her lip, but continued to dab at the wounds to clean them.

“Call for me if you feel any shifting or start bleeding. You’ll need checking at least once a day.”

She’d played along so far; it wouldn’t hurt to continue for now. The fact that the queen hadn’t called in her generals meant there was still time to do something. If she made herself useful and trusted, she could perhaps cause some damage given the right opportunity. Lexa was watching her with a curious tilt to her neck, and that Clarke saw the potential snag in the plans she was making. Lexa always watched her closely. She’d have to gain _her_ trust too, or hope for more time with the less alert Raven. She might get the chance to run and warn someone of what was coming – if only she could remember the way.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Next chapter: training and theft. 
> 
> Hopefully in a more timely manner.


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Clarke learns more about how the Iceni intend to fight

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Wow, it's been a while... exams and rewrites and more rewrites... this chapter did not want to be written, but here it is at last. 
> 
> Unfortunately, I had to cut out the 'amateur sleuthing' part promised for this chapter, because it just didn't fit. Something like that has happened the past two chapters, so I'm hesitant about giving teasers. I don't want to disappoint anyone when things don't work out like I plan.
> 
> Edited 3rd of August to remove a line about Lexa having a bow. I woke up a couple of days ago and remembered that iron age Britons didn't use them (according to the archaeological evidence)! I don't think anyone noticed, but I did so I had to fix it.

“Pass me another bucket,” Raven held out her hand expectantly.

Clarke dug a pail into the charcoal pile and handed it over. She sat back on her log, waiting for another request.

She was bored. She’d been bored since she’d arrived that morning. Currently, she was watching Raven pour charcoal into the wide neck of a clay furnace, fuelling the white-hot fire. They’d been doing the same thing for what felt like hours – adding more charcoal, pumping, adding more charcoal… it was dull.

“I know this isn’t exactly thrilling for you, but I’ve got a job to do, and I need the iron to do it. And since-”

“I know, I know, your last shipment is late so you have to make your own.”

Raven didn’t respond. She pulled the top of the bellows up and pushed down, feeding the flames with more air. One of the first things she’d explained to Clarke that morning was that the charcoal had to be fed to keep it burning, so the iron ore would separate into pure metal and tainted slag. She’d been nothing but patient in explaining her trade.

“Sorry,” Clarke murmured. “It’s just not my idea of a fun time.”

“Yeah, I get that. I’m sure I wouldn’t be all that excited watching you sew someone’s guts back in either. Maybe a little queasy, but not excited.”

Clarke shrugged and watched a group of children run excitedly out of the entrance of the settlement.

“It’s not that, it’s just-”

“You’re bored, it’s fine.” Raven leaned forward, squinting into the fire. “Could you take over for a sec? I want to see how it’s doing.”

Doing as she was told, Clarke shuffled closer to blast more air into the small hole at the front of the blazing furnace. That, and passing things, was all she felt good for. She’d been in the village for a week, and now that an Iceni healer had arrived, her skills were no longer required. Or rather, she was an outsider, and people avoided asking for her help.

Thankfully, Raven was one person who always appreciated assistance. She had plenty to do, and often complained about not having enough hands. Clarke may not have known the required techniques and couldn’t help with most of the work around the forge, but she still found a place in simple tasks that didn’t require specialist knowledge.

The smith had been far more welcoming than the rest of the Iceni, likely because of their shared status of foreigner. Both were from occupied towns, and as a result Raven knew what it was like to have everyone be suspicious of her. The difference was the circumstance. While Clarke had been perfectly content in her role back home, Raven had purposefully escaped her old life and thrown herself into a new one that she clearly loved.

Still, they’d found common ground in lamenting the less savoury aspects of town life, and had struck up a tentative friendship. Raven had jokingly suggested that she’d take Clarke on as an apprentice, but the first time she’d tried to pour molten metal into a mould, she’d managed to spill it over the work bench and filled the air with the foul stench of wasted, contaminated metal. Despite assurances that everyone failed that badly at least once, she hadn’t tried since. 

Another flood of children sped past.

“What’s going on?” Clarke asked curiously.

“Hm?” Raven didn’t risk looking up from prodding through the top of the furnace chimney.

“The kids keep running outside. Is something happening that I should know about?”

“Nobody’s said anything to me, so probably not. Training maybe.”

Raven tugged her poker out of the chimney and covered it, muttering to herself as if forgetting that she had a helper she was supposed to be using. She turned to Clarke, seeing her gaze wistfully at the gate and rolled her eyes. She tossed her poker aside and bustled back to the bellows.

“Just go, I can handle things here,” she sighed.

Clarke raised an eyebrow.

“Really?”

“Yes, if it means you stop fidgeting. You might learn something. If nothing else, you can watch the warriors getting sweaty. That was a favourite pastime of mine when I first got here.”

“You won’t get in trouble for letting me go alone?”

“Holy shit Clarke, just go,” Raven huffed in exasperation, her shoulders slumping and head rolling to the side dramatically. “What, you’re gonna sneak past a horde of trained warriors?”

“Alright!” Clarke held up her hands, backing away in mock terror.

With one final nod from the blacksmith, she left the fenced off forge in the centre of the village and headed towards the gate. It felt strange leaving without supervision. She hadn’t been allowed past the outer fence alone yet. It would be a good opportunity to get her bearings and hopefully figure out just where she was – or it would be, if she knew anything about reading the landscape.

It wasn’t difficult to know which way she was supposed to go. There was a bustling of people upon a low hill not far from the village. As Clarke approached, she saw a group of young warriors talking amongst themselves, a nervous energy about them. They were mostly teenagers, aged fifteen at most. All of them had swords of varying quality, and shields. A few had practice spears, blunt tipped and half as long again as any of them. Only a handful had any form of armour, and those that did were covered in scraps of poorly cured offcuts of leather.

She spotted Octavia, set out as a couple of years older than the rest, if no taller, talking to an excited Maeve. Clarke had not seen Boudica’s daughter since the last does of her tea, a few days ago. She seemed to be doing well, if her smile was anything to go by. The thirteen-year-old had an iron sword at her waist and was animatedly showing off a stance to an amused Octavia. Macha stood nearby, looking like a lost lamb in a mass of wolves.

Indra approached. Always one to keep order, she drew her sword and pounded the pommel into the surface of her shield. The noise attracted the teens’ attention and they quietened down immediately. Clarke wasn’t close enough to hear what she said, but the youngest of the children broke away from the older teenagers. Indra gave her a disdainful look that told her to follow them. These were spectators, too young to have their own weapons.

The children scurried to a rocky outcrop atop the hill where there was a decent view of the slope. Clarke perched herself in a spot that allowed her to see the young fighters clearly, if only because she was taller than the youngsters.

At a barked order, the Iceni warriors squared up into tight lines and drew their weapons, a nervous energy trembling through gangly limbs. Indra paced before them, explaining something in a clipped way that brooked no argument, when a distant rumbling spread through the area.

At first, Clarke thought it might be far off thunder, but the sound did not subside. It grew, as though rolling through the sky towards them. A child next to her cried out and pointed at the treeline. Clarke squinted at the rustling leaves, seeing nothing but their gentle sway. She ducked her neck down as though that might help, and then – the glint of sunlight on metal.

Elation spread through Clarke’s body as the realisation hit her. Emerging from the woods, the uniform, the unity, the formation – a legion! Perhaps someone had followed her, maybe Finn (he’d seen her last after all), or they’d somehow heard about Boudica’s planned rebellion, or even just a patrol had spotted the village packed with warriors – it didn’t matter, she was being rescued and could go home. She stood to get a better view, heart fluttering as they marched forward, joy rising in her chest each time the plumes on the centurion’s helmet bobbed. Hopping up onto her rock for a better angle, she searched for some kind of insignia that would tell her the identity of her rescuers.

There was a gasp next to her, and she looked down to see Maeve, transfixed on the approach. Her open mouth trembled, her eyes welled with tears. As the other children around her began shouting and jeering, Maeve shuddered. Clarke didn’t have to ask what was going through her mind. It was written in the way she made herself smaller in the group and let everyone push past her. Clarke knelt next to her.

“Macha,” she said, hands knitted together over her own knee. The last thing she wanted to do was reach out and startle her further. “Macha, they’re not going to hurt you.”

The young girl looked at her, eyes large and blue and watery.

“If they get too close, you can run and hide, okay? They have to march together so they move slowly. They’ll never catch up.”

Macha said nothing, simply shook her head.

“They won’t hurt me,” Clarke insisted. “And I won’t let them hurt you either, I promise.”

Lip trembling, Macha wiped her eyes on her sleeve and made herself look at the army and fingered at the small knife on her belt. Clarke swallowed and forced herself to turn her attention back to the army.

The children buzzed with excitement at the thought of witnessing a battle, and Clarke wondered if they would be so enthusiastic if they knew the cost of the violence about to occur. Her own experience with simple bar brawls had been enough, she didn’t want to deal with the aftermath of a full on slaughter.

A flash of long hair beneath a leather helmet caught her eye. She flattened her palm and raised her hand to shield her eyes from the autumn sun, squinting to get a better look. 

There was something amiss. Now that the force had emerged from the trees, it was easier to see that their numbers were wrong. There couldn’t even be a century of me there, and they had no standard. True, it wouldn’t take a large force to defeat the Iceni warriors, but it was still wrong. Clarke’s heart thudded in her ears. She tipped onto her toes as though it might make examining them easier.

 The uniforms were ill fitting, clearly not properly cared for. She turned her attention to the centurion, marked out by his helmet. He’d be in for a harsh punishment for the state of his men when they returned to their post, possibly even demotion. A command rand out and the Romans came to a halt parallel to the Iceni, their line just off centre.

It hit her. These men were no legion at all, not even auxiliary.

Clarke cursed herself for being so foolish, so easily taken in by the spectacle and her own wishful thinking. The march had been out of time, their armour uncared for and mis-shapen, and most shocking of all, now that they were easier to see, there were _women_ among their ranks. No, these were more Iceni, older than the teenagers on the hill, dressed up in stolen uniforms for some vulgar training exercise. 

Indra stepped back from where she was speaking to the youngsters and barked an instruction. Iceni shields came up. The front line fell to one knee, the second slotted their round shields over the larger gaps, then the third line until there was a tight wall of painted wood and metal meant to protect the people behind it.

Walking the length of the line, Indra inspected the formation. She kicked the leftmost boy’s leg from where it jutted out beyond the wall, miming a slash to his outstretched hamstring. She tugged at a couple of shields to cover any gaps until, pleased at last, she jogged to the crest of the hill and waved her arm at the mock centurion. 

The Roman contingent sent a barrage of blunt tipped javelins raining down on the warriors. The Crack of wood on wood rand out as the missiles were deflected, falling to the ground at their feet.

The ‘legion’ threw up their own shields in time to ward off an answering volley, the action smoother than the teenagers’ had been. These were the ones who had fought battles in person and knew what they were doing, Clarke assumed. They seemed aware of the way a Roman army would move and made a rough approximation, but they were clearly not as disciplined as the real thing. Once the last spear clattered away, one soldier whooped, shouting congratulations at a well-aimed throw.

Clarke was furious. Not only had the Iceni fooled her for a few minutes, but now they weren’t even trying to keep up the ruse. The centurion’s shoulders sagged and he shook his head in despair as his men (and _women_ ) descended into chaos for the amusement of the onlookers.

The children laughed as a few turned their noses up haughtily and some of the men pretended to hump at each other. A young boy poked Clarke in the ribs, asking seriously if Roman men shaved their arms every day so they’d look pretty.

“If they all did that, would they have time to burn our villages and take all our gold?”

Clarke turned to see Boudica standing behind them. She was clutching onto a spear, arms shaking with the effort of holding herself up.

“You should be resting, your majesty,” Clarke said, vacating her spot on the rock and gesturing for her to take it.

Boudica’s lips thinned. The queen shuffled forward, her spear functioning as a makeshift walking stick. She lowered herself on quivering limbs, letting out a sigh of relief when her backside hit the cold stone.

“I’m not your queen, Clarke, and I’ve no intention of making you my subject. You do as you’re bid and that’s good enough, but you are not, and will never be Iceni.”

She levelled her cool gaze on Clarke. For a moment, it was intimidation in her pale-blue eyes, but it was quickly replaced by mild amusement as the dread she’d intended spread through Clarke’s bones. Clarke dug her teeth into the inside of her bottom lip, trying not to bark that she didn’t _want_ to be part of the clan, that she just wanted to stay alive.

“You’re only half Roman, aren’t you,” Boudica said, her gaze turning to the training field. “What of the other half. You’re from Camulodunum, so you’re either one of the Trinovantes or the Catuvellauni. Which is it?”

Clarke shrugged.

“My mother was Catuvellauni. We weren’t close.”

Her father had told her a few scant details when she’d asked as a child. He hadn’t been particularly forthcoming and she knew better than to press too hard.

“Obviously, or you might be fighting with us.”

Boudica’s voice held a lilt of lament, as though it were some great loss that one untrained girl wouldn’t be fighting on her side. It passed quickly as one of the warriors landed a good blow and the bellow of his compatriots drew everyone’s attention back to the training.

The centurion took the momentary distraction to rally his troops and push forward, the Iceni warriors staggering back up the hill. The ground was slippery and a few fell, tumbling down under feet marching in unison.

“Perhaps it’s for the best that we wait to take our revenge,” Boudica mused as she took in the spectacle. “These children the clan has sent me are wetter behind the ears than a new-born lamb. Macha here could do better. You’d face them, wouldn’t you?”

Macha’s eyes widened and she shook her head as her mother laughed. Her bottom lip quivered and tears that had been avoided not too long ago threatened to return.

“What’s the matter? You used to love fighting with your sister.”

Boudica pointed to where Maeve was glaring off to the side of the tangle of warriors, defeated at some point and forced to sit out. There were only a few of the teenage line still fighting against the more experienced warriors.

Macha studied the ground, her head shaking faster. Clarke bit her lip to prevent herself from saying something she’d regret, hands curling into fists.

“You won’t be on the front lines.”

Boudica words were no doubt meant as some comfort. Clarke knew that, but watching the girl tremble with the thought of facing _real_ legionaries was unbearable.

“She’s eight!”

The queen’s eyebrows raised in disdain as she turned to Clarke.

“Macha is my counterweight. She will be by my side in my chariot, as she has wanted since she was five.”

“Five? That’s insane, she’s just a child brought up on stories of glory. Look at her, she’s terrified!”

She should stop. She should be quiet. Of all the people to get into an argument with, this was the one who held the most power over her life. Clarke knew that, but the thought of Macha, small and terrified, trying desperately to balance on a chariot hurtling towards death was too much.

“You’d put your own child in danger like that?”

Boudica levelled her with an even stare, lips pursed.

“My child knows where her loyalties lie because she both loves and is loved by her people. It’s a matter of duty.” Boudica beckoned her daughter close. “You want to help, don’t you?”

She laid a hand on her daughter’s shoulder, drawing her near. She smiled down at the young girl, taking her hand in the first display of motherly affection Clarke had seen her give. Macha settled a little, her eyes still brimming, lip still wobbling, but stronger. She sniffed hard and steeled herself, nodding – albeit only slightly. Boudica stroked her auburn hair and drew her child into her arms proudly.

“Where are _your_ loyalties, Clarke? You’ve saved the woman who would destroy your home and anyone you hold dear within it. For what? Your own life? The slightest chance that you might escape and tell the enemy we’re coming?”

Breath caught in Clarke’s throat as she searched for a way she could reply that wouldn’t cause offense, something that wasn’t _‘If I get the chance, I’ll kill you to stop you from starting a war.’_

“If there’s a way to save the people I care about, I’ll do it,” she said finally. “The only way I can see to do that now is to stay in your good graces.”

“By arguing with me?” Boudica barked a laugh, turning the eyes of the children to them.

Clarke’s cheeks burned and she stared off back at the village, seeing it practically empty in the distance. She wondered angrily why she’d even left. She didn’t need to know how the Iceni fought and killed. She didn’t need to know that the they expected the children to take part.

“I’m going back to see if Raven needs anything,” she said quietly, and started a slow trudge away when Boudica gave her no acknowledgement. 

-

Lexa adjusted the strap holding her helmet in place. It was too big, even tightened as it was. It was meant for a larger, beefier man is she remembered correctly. A man who had begged and squealed like a pig, insisting that his place in the legion had been bought by a wealthy father to improve his chances at a senate seat in Rome, _please don’t-_

“Starting positions!” she commanded, lowering her shield as the last of the young warriors went down, defeated by one of her veterans. Total annihilation was normal the first time, she reminded herself. It just hadn’t taken as long as she’d hoped.

With a low grumble, the men and women around her straightened and plodded back down the hill to assume their initial stances. The lines were close enough to the disciplined Roman formation as they ever would be. Iceni pride wouldn’t let them take on the ways of the enemy, even if it might make more sense. 

Lexa’s time fighting in the west had proven that each clan had their own tradition of warfare that they would not, or _could not_ abandon. Some clans from the mountains had adapted to the enemy and kept their distance. Some from flatter plains ended up trying to fight solo battles for personal honour against a highly trained and disciplined force that refused to break ranks. For whatever reason, be it long standing clan rivalry, or simple personal grudge, the clans had their own ways and found it difficult to mesh with one another.

She watched as Indra stepped in front of her students to explain the tactics they should employ if they wished to live.

“What was the lesson here?” the veteran called as the teenagers tried to regain their dignity, standing from where they’d fallen.

“We need a chariot to pick at them from afar,” Maeve offered, rubbing her torso where she’d been jabbed by a blunted gladius.

“Are you going to build chariots for every Iceni warrior? Most of you won’t have them in a real battle. Try again.”

It was half right, but not the answer Indra wanted. It was true that chariots had initially worked well when the Romans invaded. That was a story Maeve had been raised on – the brave warriors and their horses who had risked life and limb to race around the unsuspecting invading army and hurl their spears. The tales always left out the part where they had eventually been flanked and decimated, unable to use their speed to escape.

“We can’t win head on.”

This was Octavia, who was still new to training, but since she came from Camulodunum, knew more about the legion than her peers.

“Good,” Indra nodded proudly. She’d taken a liking to the young woman early on. She’d never admit it or treat her better for it, but she had once confided to Lexa that the defector had potential. “We cannot win against them head to head. We could train all our lives and still not best them that way.”

Indra paced, watching where each of her warriors held themselves. Lexa noted that most of them were clutching at their torsos, a few were rubbing at their heads – vital areas that should be protected the most, regardless of foe.

“What would you suggest?” Indra stopped in front of a green young man, one of the those recently arrived in the village to aid in the coming rebellion. His skinny frame suggested he’d never so much as wrangled a pig, let alone fought in battle. He paled at the attention and visibly gulped.

“D-don’t fight them head to head?”

A rare smile cracked on Indra’s face.

“Yes,” she inclined her head, as though he’d imparted some great wisdom. He stood a little straighter, looking around and grinning at his peers. “We hit them and then we run. There is no dishonour in retreat, not if we live to fight another day.”

Lexa’s disguised warriors nodded solemnly. She’d picked them precisely because they had each spent time warring, or had been witness to the invasion. They’d all had to retreat at some point, and it was the only reason they were still alive. It was the only reason Lexa herself was still alive.

She glanced up at Maeve, who was frowning at Indra’s words. She’d taken her pain and moulded it into anger. It had been worrying to see her running full speed at the shield wall, fighting in a raw, furious way that saw her as one of the first to be put down. But that was why they were training like this.

The hope was that if they could teach at least a few of them what to expect, then they might spread the word and live longer. Maeve was simply too close to think about losing to her rage.

“What do we do when we can’t retreat?”

This was one of the shorter boys, blonde and due a growth spurt by the look of him. He must have been around twelve. Lexa daren’t look too long at him, instead adjusting her grip on the gladius in her hand. She disliked the weapon intensely. It was too short for one thing, designed to be thrust out from behind a shield. They were standard issue, each man of the legion had one, all the same. They lacked the soul of a weapon made especially for one warrior, or one with a rich and honourable history.

“Then you fight together, as one unit. You take down as many as you can, and you make yourselves and your families proud.”

It did them good to know early on that battle was nothing like the stories, Lexa told herself. People would die, their _friends_ would die. There would never be time to stop and help someone you cared about. It was better that they learn that now.

Lexa’s hand tightened around the gladius once more.

She looked away from the teenagers, up at the small crowd of children gathered to watch. A few of them had picked up sticks to entertain themselves while there was no fighting. She saw Boudica sitting up there with Macha and frowned. She could have sworn that when they’d marched from the trees, Clarke had been up there too.

-

When training devolved to one-on-one sparring, Lexa excused herself. It was intended as a way to promote some competition between the youngsters, to give them some skills to hone over winter, but she didn’t feel like she had anything to add that might help them. She didn’t see the point, it would just detract from the work they’d done getting them to fight together. Helmet tucked under her arm, she’d headed back alone, somewhat frustrated.

The settlement was eerily empty with most people out at the field. There were only a handful around – the infirm, elderly and very young, as well as those who cared for them. Besides those, there were one or two other adults with important work to be doing. Lexa could hear hammering in the forge, and spotted Powell gutting a pig carcass for later. He waved in his awkward way, bloody knife in hand. She nodded in reply and walked on.

Lexa preferred things quiet, but it was a rare luxury. There was always something to be doing or someone to be asking favours of, and it had only grown more hectic since she’d returned to Boudica’s side. There’d been Iceni coming from far and wide seeking instruction from their queen, waiting for a rebellion, and it had been Lexa’s job to tell them all that there would _be_ no rebellion for the time being.

“Since you insist that we wait,” Boudica had told her.

Lexa had done her duty, as she always would, but prayed for the day when everyone would return home and she could pass winter as she’d intended – quietly, in solitude, reflecting on the year and planning the next.

If her sources were right and the Romans intended to take Mona next, the remaining clans would fall. For all their blustering and posturing, the kings and queens of the free clans relied on the druids trained there to guide them in the will of the gods and advise them in effective leadership. That Boudica was currently without their steadying hand was concerning. She could only hope that either one would come, or that they could travel back to the fort soon. They needed to gather their forces and go _there_ , not waste time with poorly conceived notions of revenge. She could only hope that she could convince enough people to listen before plans were too far in motion. 

A particularly loud hammer strike from the forge broke her from her thoughts.

“Hey centurion!” Raven called from the fence of her forge. It took Lexa a few moments to realise that she was still in costume. After a quick glance at her clothing told her that Raven was addressing her, she made her way over.

“Need something?”

“Uh, yeah,” the smith looked at her as though she’d just asked a stupid question. A pair of beefy looking men were taking turns bringing heavy mallets down on a lump of fresh, still glowing metal behind her. “Are you done with my assistant? She should be helping do this if she’s gonna have a job with me.”

Lexa wasn’t sure how to respond.

“Clarke? I haven’t seen her recently.”

“Oh…” Raven said, confusion written in the lift of her brow. “She said you wanted her to bring you some stuff, I figured she’d already found you. Although, I guess she’s waiting until you change. I wouldn’t want to see that uniform in her shoes.”

“Right,” Lexa said slowly, the pieces beginning to fall into place. It seemed Clarke had finally found the courage to do something stupid.

Raven pushed away from the fence and grabbed a mallet of her own.

“Just don’t keep her too long.”

Lexa nodded and hurried away to confirm her suspicions. She headed straight for the women’s dwelling and pushed past the animal skin door flap. One of the women let out a gasp at her attire, but she didn’t pause. She tossed her helmet on her bedding and rushed to where Raven and Clarke slept.

At first glance, it appeared nothing was amiss. The section along the wall that Clarke shared with the smith was tidy, the bed rolled up and furs neatly folded. A pair of wool-stuffed pillows were piled on top, ready for use that night. The sack that Clarke had thus far refused to unpack was gone, and Lexa’s worries were justified.

For a brief moment, she wondered why she should care. Clarke had made it clear that she didn’t want to be there, and the Iceni definitely didn’t want her in their village. There was no place for her now that Nyko had arrived from the main fort, and she’d made no effort to make friends beyond Raven.

She jumped as a cold, wet nose snuffled at the back of her knee. Turning, she saw one of the wiry haired hunting dogs, trained to stalk wild prey, but babied by everyone nonetheless. She ruffled his ears absentmindedly, knowing that soon, a pack of them would be gathered and sent out to catch a wayward half-Roman, and perhaps, to bring her down. One might pounce and grab her by the neck, hopefully killing her quickly. The alternative, if the Iceni decided they wanted to participate themselves…

Her throat dry, Lexa swallowed. She gently batted the dog’s muzzle away when he pressed forward for more attention, and made for her own sleeping area. She began to undo the clasps and buckles holding her costume in place. She felt significantly lighter without the mail shirt weighing her down, and her toes freer out of the hobnailed caligae not meant for her.

Replaying her brief conversation with Raven in her head, she examined her belongings.

_“…said you wanted her to bring you some stuff…”_

The peg above her bed was empty of her newly finished cloak. Worse came when she dug out the wooden box she kept tucked behind a pile of clothing and noted that it was lighter than it ought to have been. Flipping the lid open, her stomach dropped at the sight of the fabric lining void of its usual contents.

Lexa slid a fresh tunic over her head and a pair of shoes over thick socks, then slipped her old cloak around her shoulders. Feeling eyes on her, she turned to see one of the women watching her curiously, the same one who’d been startled when she entered the roundhouse.

“I’m going hunting,” she explained, tucking an iron dagger into her belt.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I want to ask for some tips about tagging! I'm not really sure what I'm doing with them. Would you prefer if I tagged the more difficult to swallow stuff now so you know what's coming, or would you prefer them to appear as the story moves on? Let me know in the comments, or drop me a message on tumblr at the--peripheral


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So... it's been a while. Whoops. A huge thanks goes out to didiefs-world on tumblr for her inspiring work on some moodboards that really helped me finish this. Seriously, she's the best.
> 
> In this chapter, the 'first act' comes to an end, so the meat of the story (and the actual clexa content you guys came here for) can begin.

When she’d returned to find the village near empty, it had seemed to Clarke like her luck had finally turned. The few people still scattered around the settlement were busy with their tasks - Raven in her forge, Niylah with her dyes, Powell with his animals - all too preoccupied to notice her scurrying around collecting things she might need. When she slipped through the gate towards the woods, nobody shouted after her or tried to stop her. She tried to walk calmly and with purpose to avoid drawing attention, but as soon as she could no longer see the settlement, she ran. Heart pounding in her ears, she tried to put as much distance between herself and her captors as she could. For all her worrying, escaping had been easy. It was what came after that was difficult.

 As the day’s light faded and she realised she had no idea where she was, Clarke was forced to face the reality of her situation. She was lost. Her feet ached from the uneven terrain and her clothes were snagged and ripped from catching on branches and brambles. The woods looked the same in every direction and for all she knew she was walking in circles. A drop of water slipped from a leaf onto the top of her head and she shuddered. She tugged her stolen cloak more tightly around her shoulders and tilted her head back to stare through gold adorned branches at the sky. A person could find their way by examining the stars at night, she knew, and they’d be out soon. That was how ships stayed their course over the water from Gaul. Some people even used the skies to predict their fortunes and know what the gods had in store for them. All she saw was the promise of rain.

 Gulping down her uneasiness, Clarke slowed her steps to assess her surroundings. Practicality told her that if she carried on now, she’d only lose her way further as darkness descended. She needed to find somewhere she could catch her breath, somewhere to sleep. She needed to build a fire. With something immediate to focus on, the building panic in her chest ebbed a fraction.

 With the last of the light, Clarke concentrated on finding a space that wasn’t covered with wet leaves and still had enough tree cover to protect her from the inevitable  downpour. The last thing she needed was to catch a deadly chill in the middle of nowhere. At some point during her time in the village, the nights had turned cold. She hadn’t noticed because she’d been tucked up in a warm roundhouse filled with other people - people who’d likely noticed her absence and were out looking for her. She doubted they’d welcome her back into their homes if they found her. No, she’d betrayed their trust by running, and that meant they were free to do as they pleased. The thought prickled the hairs on her arms, but there was no time to dwell.

 It took longer than she would have liked, but eventually Clarke found a tight enough copse of trees that still held their leaves, within which was a large moss-covered boulder she could sit upon if the ground became too wet. She kicked aside the worst of the leaves and dropped her sack of belongings on the ground. She dug through everything to find an old tunic and laid it out flat. The crumpled fabric wouldn’t give much comfort against the cold earth, but it was better than nothing.

 Next was fire. While she had plenty of experience building and maintaining fires with the wood she’d traded for back home, Clarke had never actually had to gather her own. Everything around her was either damp or rotten and when she tried snapping twigs from the trees directly, they wouldn’t light. It was frustrating, but after an embarrassingly long period of experimentation, she managed to catch a flame and gather what she hoped would be enough fuel to last the night. Once the fire was lit - smoking, sputtering mess that it was - all she had to do was keep it fed. The light was comforting and the familiar crackling of the burning wood was enough to soothe Clarke’s nerves, even just a little.

 Food was easier. She’d had the foresight to swipe a handful of dried meat strips and a few carrots that she’d planned for a snack on the road. As she chewed on a tough piece of meat, she made her plan for morning. As soon as the sun rose, she’d pay better attention to its position and try to head south. Regardless of where she’d stumbled to in her hurry escape, she’d stand a better chance of finding someone who could direct her back to Camulodunum if she aimed for the most occupied and Roman areas.

 Satisfied with her belly full and her plan made, Clarke bundled the softest of her belongings into a makeshift pillow, huddled under her cloak, and wished for morning’s clarity. As her heart began to calm and her breathing slowed, the heavens opened.

-

Sleep refused to come. Clarke’s mind wouldn’t settle and the cold continued to creep. Half the sticks she was periodically adding to the fire were too sodden to catch alight and she daren’t risk leaving what little warmth she had to find better fuel. The pouring rain assured her that there was none.

 To occupy herself, she slipped the bronze dagger she’d found in the roundhouse from her belt and tested its weight in her hand. The blade was polished and sharp, the handle wrapped in worn leather blackened with age. The symbol moulded into the join between the two was vaguely familiar - a spoked wheel of some sort? Whatever it was, the weapon was so well cared for that she almost felt bad for taking it. She’d only meant to take the cloak hanging by the door, but when she’d found the dagger tucked up nearby it was as though it’d been placed by the gods themselves. She’d be able to protect herself should she need to.

 Someone would have noticed her absence by now, if not hours ago. Clarke hoped she’d put enough distance between herself and the village that they’d either give up or have to wait for morning. Logically she knew it was unlikely, that she was probably being hunted as she sat still pondering her fate. The rain was on her side at least, coming down heavily enough that it might mask her trail.

 A twig snapped nearby and panic speared Clarke’s heart. Scrambling to shovel what dirt she could to quench the fire, she prayed that the sound had simply come from a clumsy animal - then immediately hated the idea when a vision of a slavering, hungry wolf rose in her mind. Perhaps that was just to be the culmination of her misfortune - having made her escape, she’d now lose her life in the jaws of a mindless beast.

 As quickly as she could, she leapt being the mossy boulder and tried to stay as still as possible. Minutes passed as she pressed up against the cold rock, heart thundering in her ears. Had she dreamed it? Had the sound been a trick of her tired, overactive mind? Just as she’d convinced herself that she’d imagined the whole thing, footsteps squelched through the sodden leaves and mud - evenly paced and clearly human. Despite the incessant voice in her head telling her not to, Clarke peered over the stone towards her makeshift camp.

 Someone was coming closer. Squinting through the gloom, Clarke made out a figure approaching, cloaked and hooded, hunched against the cold. Clarke’s eyes darted over the space she’d made and cursed inwardly. Her old tunic still lay on the ground and her sack was still propped against the trunk of a tree. It was clear evidence that she’d been there, that she was still close by. The intruder took in the same scene and straightened.

 “I didn’t mean to startle you,” they - _she_ \- said loudly. Of course, it had to be Lexa. Clarke bit her lip. Of all the villagers that could have been sent after her, it had to be the one that she’d stolen from. She remained firmly where she was, in no hurry to give away her position or her life.

 “Don’t light a fire next time,” Lexa said to the woods. “I could see the light from a mile away and the wet wood gave off too much smoke.”

 Willing herself still, Clarke watched as Lexa began examining the still smouldering embers of her fire and then her supply of sticks. There was a loud tut as a large proportion was discarded. Clarke frowned, feeling almost offended since it had taken her so long to gather. She wanted to yell, to say that she’d done the best that she could, but she’d only give herself away. She gripped the dagger tighter in her palm and settled for glaring from afar.

 Lexa whistled a note, high pitched and sharp. Clarke ducked back down, waiting for the rest of the hunting party to show themselves at the signal. Whoever came was quiet in both their movements and their replies to the words Lexa mumbled to them.

 “This is Pebbles,” Lexa spoke loudly after a few moments. “He’ll stay with you.”

  _Pebbles?_ Hearing footsteps moving away, Clarke risked another look. Lexa was leaving, and there was no other person there. Confused, Clarke scanned the dark copse again and saw, lying upon her tunic, one of the dogs from the settlement. He seemed calm and unthreatening at that moment. He wasn’t even looking in her direction, but his sheer size gaver her pause. Of a size with a wolf and likely as strong, he’d have no problem tearing her apart if given the order. Clarke drew in a shaky breath. She wouldn’t be able to sneak away, that much was certain. She’d stand up and immediately be heard by sharp ears, and that’d be it. There was no way out.

 As she crouched there, paralysed in fear and unable to move, Lexa returned with an armful of wood. She ruffled the hound’s ears and began rebuilding the fire with small sticks at the bottom and a platform of thicker pieces above it.

 “If you do it like this, logs at the top will dry from the fire beneath.” Clarke narrowed her eyes as Lexa explained it like it was the easiest thing in the world, like her earlier struggles had been for nothing. And more annoying was the assumption that she was still there, that she’d been too intimidated to run. “Clarke, I know you’re here. I’m not going to hurt you, so just come out and sit by the fire. You’ll be warmer.”

 She wouldn’t. She _couldn’t_. If she gave herself away now, she’d be dragged back and in chains by morning, probably flogged within an inch of her life by midday. No, she’d rather wait for Lexa and her dog to sleep or be distracted, take whatever tiny opportunity that presented itself to sneak away. She wouldn’t shy from it this time. Her chances were slim, but she liked them better than whatever the Iceni had in store for her.

 As she waited, Lexa made herself comfortable. She unfurled a bedroll next to her hound and settled next to him, leaning back on her arms to bask in the heat of the fire. She looked entirely unconcerned with the situation, as though the conclusion was already forgone. She sighed contentedly and stretched out to warm her fingers. Clarke shifted her weight, her wet clothes dragging on the moss and suddenly felt that much colder. Whatever she did, she’d have to do it soon. She could freeze to death in soaking clothes were she was, she could stumble through the woods into the jaws of a predator, or she could sit by the fire with someone who was likely - _rightly_ \- angry with her. A stone whistled past her ear and hit the rock, making her yelp in surprise.

 “You’re not good at hiding.”

 Two sets of eyes bore into Clarke’s soul, and any thought of escape withered. Reluctantly, she stood from crouching as gracefully as she could given her wet clothes and cold-stiffened joints. She took a hesitant, timorous step away from her hiding place. When Lexa neither lunged to capture her nor set her hound to attack, she shuffled over and dropped onto the ground on the opposite side of the fire to her captor, nary a word escaping her lips. She glowered, even as warmth started to seep into her bones. Lexa held her stare, eyes flitting over the stolen cloak now smeared green with moss. Beneath it, Clarke still clutched the bronze dagger, noting that Lexa had another weapon of the same type at her waist, this one iron. If it came to it, she decided, she’d strike quickly and not give Lexa an opportunity to draw. It’d need to be fast and somewhere vital or debilitating. Whatever the Iceni had in store for her was undoubtedly worse.

 Strangely, the expression Lexa wore was not one of murderous intent. There was no malice or even anger in her face, and when Pebbles huffed his disinterest, she looked almost amused. And yet, Clarke knew that either of the figures on the other side of the fire were capable of taking her life on a whim.

 “Will it be quick?” she asked, morbid curiosity getting the better of her. She reasoned with herself that it’d be easier to kill if she knew what horrors might be in store. Lexa shifted uncomfortably.

 “You’ve broken the trust between guest and host. The Iceni aren’t forgiving.”

 “So, no.”

 Lexa worked her jaw back and forth briefly, her furrowed brow belying her frustration. “They won’t kill you,” she said eventually. “They don’t know.”

 Clarke blinked her surprise, heart skipping and then filling with dread in the same second.

 “You came to kill me yourself.”

 “No!” Lexa caught herself quickly after the exclamation, breathing in and shaking her head slowly. “No, I won’t allow harm to come to you.”

 It couldn’t be right. It had to be a ruse. As Lexa had just said, she’d broken a law that the Iceni held dear, and yet nothing was going to happen? The queen’s protege had followed her into the woods, to ask her politely - please come back? Clarke found it difficult to swallow and disbelief was louder than caution.

 “I should just trust you about that? After everything?”

 “That would be foolish,” Lexa conceded. She reached down to pick up one of the drier leaves she’d gathered to use as kindling and twirled it between forefinger and thumb, studying the motion. Whether she was trying to formulate her words or come up with a convincing lie, Clarke wasn’t sure. “You came to us in good faith, so it was us who deceived you first. You saved our leader’s life when it might have been easy for you to kill her. You cared for her daughters even after you learned who they were. I’d say that we owe you a great deal.”

 “It’s my job.”

 “And you seem to care about doing it. Consider keeping your life a repayment of sorts.” Lexa shrugged, her face impassive. Clarke scoffed loudly.

 “Bullshit. You wanted me gone. At least that way you wouldn’t have to watch me all the time.”

 “Clearly I haven’t been watching you closely enough.” Something like humour glinted in Lexa’s eye as she ticked a brow up. It only irritated Clarke more. There had to be a catch. There was no way Lexa would follow her out to the middle of nowhere just to fetch her.

 “What do you want from me?” Clarke demanded. “Just say it. It’s not like I have a choice anyway, so don’t try to make me feel better about the shit I’m in.”

 Abruptly, Lexa dropped her leaf and unsheathed the dagger tied to her belt. She stood quickly and made for Clarke’s side of the fire. So, this was it. This was the moment Clarke had been fearing. She was about to die. Her fingers tightened around her own weapon and she mentally prepared herself. If she struck out quickly, she’d be able to get in a good first hit, make a mark that’d leave a lasting wound -

 Lexa’s dagger landed on the ground at Clarke’s feet with a heavy thump.

 “Believe me when I say I’m not here to hurt you,” Lexa said firmly. “I want you to help me save Camulodunum.

 Clarke gaped. The sudden proposal was so far from anything she’d been expecting that she couldn’t find words to respond. Her mouth remained agape as Lexa closed the rest of the distance between them, coming to kneel in front of her so they were eye to eye. “There’s no trick here, Clarke, I promise you.”

 There was no discernable lie in Lexa’s wide, pleading eyes - no quick furtive movements, no inability to look straight at her, just openness and hopefulness. Clarke backed up an inch, her throat suddenly tight.

 “You’d betray your own people?” she asked hoarsely.

 “It’s about protecting them. I’m not about to go with you to throw myself at the governor’s feet, but I also don’t want to watch the clans get themselves killed in some suicidal attempt at revenge. You can understand that, can’t you? Isn’t that why you left? To let your people know they’re in danger.”

 Clarke swallowed and turned her head to watch the steam and smoke rise from the fire, warping the space on the other side. It was easier to watch that than be reminded that she’d failed to get back and warn the guard what was coming. It was easier to say nothing. Lexa took the hint and retreated. As she moved, the shape of her body changed with the rising heat, her face distorted in the flickering flames.

 “I’m sorry, Clarke, I truly am. You haven’t been treated fairly. I know what it’s like to wake up in the morning and worry you won’t make it to sunset.” Lexa’s voice was quieter, harder to hear over the crackling and popping of the burning wood. “I’ve fought the legions in the west and I know that we can’t win in the way Boudica dreams we can. Help me make her see that, and we can both save our people.”

 “I’m a prisoner,” Clarke murmured. “I can’t exactly whisper in her ear, can I?”

 “No, but she respects you for what you’ve done for her. And you can prove to everyone else that Camulodunum’s people are just the same as they are. Show them that your people are just trying to survive, that they’re not traitors because they live closer to the Romans than we do.”

 “Sure, we’re the same.” Clarke’s tone turned bitter at the mere proposal that she was anything like the Iceni. “The only difference is that nobody back home ever kept me against my will, and they definitely don’t want me dead.”

 “They don’t want you dead, Clarke-”

 “Well they sure as hell don’t want me around.”

 Lexa’s gaze fell to the ground in front of her. “They don’t know you,” she said.

 “And you do?” Clarke laughed harshly, one hand flinging out from beneath her cloak to gesture in disbelief. “We’ve had what, two or three conversations in the whole time I’ve been here? One of those was you asking me where Raven was. Don’t pretend you know anything about me.”

 “I know you followed your friend out here because she told you she needed you.”

 “That worked out great for me, didn’t it?”

 Lexa ran a hand over her face, her chin coming to rest on her chin. The idea that she was frustrating her gave Clarke no small amount of satisfaction, but Lexa quickly regained her composure.

 “If you think you were unprepared for what you were dragged into, imagine what it’ll be like for the farmers who haven’t fought a war in a generation, whose only experience of combat is the old tales of glory they were told as children. The Iceni avoided fighting when the Romans first invaded because they took the coin they were offered instead. They avoided helping when the south was taken, and they avoid it now when the west is so close to falling. Imagine what will happen to them when they face the legion. They’re not warriors, and if they attack Camulodunum, they’ll be slaughtered.”

 “Why should I care?”

 “Because they’ll take people you _do_ care about with them. They’re loyal and they’ll fight to the death for a chance to die in glory. They’ll burn everything in their path, but in the end they’ll lose. They’re angry about what happened to their queen and they’ll be killed because of it.” Lexa shook her head in exasperation. “I can’t stop them on my own.”

 Clarke couldn’t deny that the clan had the right to be incensed. What had been done to Boudica and her daughters was inexcusable. Whoever had ordered his men to attack those girls would answer to the gods. Had it been anyone she’d known, she’d want to help deliver him to them herself. The camaraderie of the legions was unfortunately such that it was unlikely that any one of the men would report the incident, and what happened would be lost to history.

 From what she’d witnessed back home, the training of the legions was such that each unit was an entity of conformation rather than a collection of individuals. Men marched in unfaltering unison, unerringly precise in their steps. They ate, breathed and slept in the same regimented fashion. The spectacle was intimidating enough as a citizen, but to the clans they’d be terrifying. Judging by the rabble of teenagers she’d seen that morning, Clarke knew there would be no match.

 “Why didn’t you ask me before? Why now?”

 “I thought I’d have more time to come up with a solid plan. I didn’t know you’d leave.”

 “Would you have stayed?” Clarke raised both brows in doubt.

 “I suppose not.” Lexa gave a short huff. “I can’t blame you.”

 The hound gave a whining yawn and Lexa turned her attention to him for a moment. She scrubbed a hand over his large grey head and yawned in return. As she fought the infectious urge to respond in kind, it occurred to Clarke that Lexa seemed less caged, more patient than she ever had been before. Perhaps in asking for help, a burden had been lifted from her shoulders and she seemed younger for it.

 “So what do you propose?” Clarke asked, trying to shake the idea that there might be anything more to the woman across from her than the queen’s gruff confidant.

 “We go back and work slowly to change as many minds as we can. I’ve convinced Boudica to wait for spring before she mobilises, so we have time.” Lexa leaned forward, her face serious. “If you help me with this, then I swear to you that when it’s all over I’ll take you home myself.”

 “And if we can’t do anything? If the attack goes ahead?”

 “Then you’re free to go wherever you want. You can try to warn your people or try your luck in finding somewhere safer.”

 “You make it sound so simple.”

 “It won’t be, I have no illusion of that.” The side of Lexa’s lip twitched up into an almost-there smile.

 “They’ll kill us both it they find out.”

 “It’s possible, which is why we have to trust each other.”

 “That’s not very comforting.”

 Lexa inclined her head but didn’t say anything further. There wasn’t anything that would reassure her, so Clarke didn’t begrudge it. Biting her lip, she at last withdrew her hand from behind her cloak and held out the dagger.

 “While we’re on the subject of trust.”

 Recognition flickered in Lexa’s eyes. “Thank you.”

 Pebbles watched with interest as Clarke picked up the iron dagger from where it lay in front of her, then stood to cross over to the other side of the fire. She offered Lexa the handle of the bronze dagger and tucked the iron one into her own belt. With a tilt of her head, she dared Lexa to argue. When she didn’t protest, Clarke was at last satisfied, for the time being, that perhaps they could work together.


End file.
